It's Only Life
by MadAuntieKeith
Summary: Kieren Walker can't bring himself to die. He doesn't know exactly why, only that he feels there's something else he has to find first- unfortunately, that something is actually a someone who doesn't want to be found. Still, we don't always get what we want. Angsty Siren Still Alive AU, trigger warning for graphic depictions of self-harm, depression and drug use/withdrawal.
1. Black & Red

**Hi, everybody!**

**Now, for those of you who haven't guessed already I've been pretty busy with fics recently. Six chapters to go of Broken Masks, a selection of one-shots, and even a Sherlolly fic when I can get my head away from the zombie boyfriends for long enough.**

**But this is one I've had in my head for a long time. This is pretty much the first multi-chapter I ever planned for this ship/fandom, had it kicking about in my head since episode 5 aired but I didn't get around to writing it for ages. But since I've got a couple of chapters written and several more planned (and there seems to have been a surge in popularity for Siren Still Alive AUs recently) I figured now's as good a time as any to publish the first chapter as a test run! If it goes down well I'll keep on writing :) **

**The name of this fic comes from the song by The Shins, some lyrics of which will be used at the very beginning and the very end. Listen to the song, guys!**

**MASSIVE MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING: This is an incredibly gritty fic, and the first chapter is the worst of all as it depicts two suicide attempts, one of which is described in incredible (gory) detail. So if you are easily upset/triggered by self-harm, blood, drugs or depression, I would recommend just skipping this fic altogether. Or at least just skim the first chapter. I don't think it's ever gonna be as bad as this again, but I just got carried away writing this chapter and then couldn't bring myself to delete any of what I wrote. So please, don't read if you're overly sensitive 'cause I don't wanna make anyone depressed! Or at least, not in the actual clinical dangerous sense- if this fic just makes you sad in the harmless 'this-fic-is-tearing-out-my-heart-and-I'm-loving-it' way, then I consider that a success. I'm a fanfic author, I feed off your praise and feels.**

**So, that's the big ol' warning out of the way! On with the fic, I guess! I dedicate this to ilikedthewayhegaveback, who has had the (dubious) honour of reading each chapter as I write it and has been giving me the most amazing positive feedback imaginable. You rock!**

**DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Music and lyrics in this chapter belong to The Shins.**

* * *

"_Well, I guess it's only life_

_It's only natural_

_We all spend a little while going down the rabbit hole_

_The things they taught you_

_They're lining up to haunt you_

_They've got your back against the wall…"_

-'It's Only Life', The Shins

* * *

**Chapter One: Black & Red**

* * *

He expected his skin to crawl and fists to clench. He expected to feel angry, feel rage like nothing he'd ever experienced before. Sadness deeper than the depths of Hell.

But everything is cold and numb. Every step feels like walking through treacle, every breath a laboured gasp of frigid air, burning his throat and coiling painfully in his lungs. His hands hang limply at his sides, and he can't even bring himself to care about the bitter winter chill that nips at his fingers. It isn't important. Nothing is.

He doesn't even need to look to know where he is going. He's walked the path a thousand times, it's as natural as breathing to his unfeeling body.

He doesn't remember entering the cave. He doesn't remember fumbling for the matches to light the candles and sliding to the cold, damp floor. But still he finds himself gazing up at the crudely painted words on the rough wall, the back of his head pressed against the cool stone. The open flames at his sides do nothing to alleviate the chill in his bones, but he already knows that. It is deeper than the cold of a winter's day. It is the kind of ice that never melts, seeping from the frozen marrow of his tired bones and spreading through his body, icy fingers clawing at his organs, trickling through his veins, and he honestly believes that he'll never feel warm again. As the tears begin to roll down his cheeks, he is amazed that they don't solidify against his freezing skin.

Nothing feels right. Nothing feels real. He turns his glistening eyes to the second word, etching each letter onto his heart. He has to, otherwise it'll slip away, all of it. All those secret smiles, all those chaste kisses, all those nights sneaking away to this place. Their place. He is the only one left to remember them, now. Once he's gone, so is everything they had. No one to know, no one left to remember.

Choking sobs engulf him, and he doubles over, clutching his sides because he knows that at any moment his body could collapse in on itself. It's hollow, now, a gaping cavity gouged out in his chest- nothing to stop the outside pressure from imploding his fragile body. Soon there'll be nothing left of him.

"Come back…" he gasps, turning his face pleadingly back to the writing on the wall. He doesn't expect an answer, but Christ, does he hope for one. It's still wrong. He can't be gone. Not just like that. This isn't the first time he's left without a word, but it's just so much worse than before because now he knows he's never coming back. He isn't just in a different town or across the sea. All that remains of him is his body, probably lying in pieces across a battlefield, too lost and scattered even for a burial. Lost forever in a godforsaken no-man's land, half the world away.

With every passing breath he feels the cold stab of ice in his heart, feels his frozen ribs pressing closer together, mercilessly constricting his struggling lungs. Yet still the vacuum remains.

He knows that he should go home. But he doesn't know where home is anymore. His own house hasn't felt like a home in weeks, every night a new fight. Nothing has been right since Rick left. Suddenly, he was alone again. He couldn't speak to anyone. He couldn't tell his little sister- he wanted to protect her from the misery in the world, not drag her headfirst into his own pain. He couldn't talk to his father, not about Rick. He wouldn't understand. He couldn't even talk to his mum. She wouldn't know what to say, how to help. There was nothing she could say. Nothing to be done. He was on his own now, in this godforsaken village that had always hated him from the day he could think. The feeling was mutual.

With every passing moment, escape seems more impossible. So what if he goes away to college? So what if he moves to a different city? It won't change anything. It won't kill the memories. It won't stop this feeling in his chest, this impenetrable frost over his heart. It is a part of him, it's who he is. Even with Rick, even here in their special place amongst the walls that had witnessed their entire life together from childhood friends to cautious lovers, it was a feeling that never departed, just lessened. At least for short snatches of time, nestled against his love's side in their little haven, it had become easier to pretend. But he was gone now, and the den would never be anything more than a tomb where their memory would go to die.

Maybe it wouldn't be the only thing to die here.

He doesn't know when he reached into his pocket, when his fingers wrapped around the cool metal. But it's there now, resting in his trembling palm. He doesn't know why he carries it around with him- he'd never had much use for it, it had just been a neat present from his dad. Maybe he'd always known, maybe that's why he kept it in his pocket. Maybe it was always supposed to end this way.

He raises his other hand to it, catching his breath as he slides the knife from its slot. The cold metal gleams in the candlelight, tongues of orange flame dancing over the polished steel. He lightly presses his finger to the edge, and when it comes away he stares at the fine red slit. Not the sharpest blade in the world, but enough. More than enough.

He slides into an almost trance-like state as he lifts the red-tinged blade to his left wrist. As the metal presses closer he finds his mind flying back to that old box of memories under his bed- the only memories of them that will last once he's gone. Maybe someone will find them and know why he had to do it. Maybe they will see the photos, read the letters and the love in every word, and know why he couldn't stay. He thinks back to that postcard, the one he knows better than the lyrics of his favourite song. He thinks of the tiny, timid 'x' beneath Rick's name, as if terrified of what could happen if the note was found by anyone other than its intended recipient. He thinks of the famous self-portrait on the front of the card, the colourful face of his favourite artist. How many biographies has he read of that wonderful, tortured genius? As the blade nips his skin he thinks of his death, the infection from the gunshot wound they believed to be self-inflicted. They say his brother had been the only person to witness the great Vincent Van Gogh's last words, the final thoughts of one of the greatest artists who ever lived.

"_The sadness will last forever," _he quotes under his breath, gasping at the pain as the cold steel breaks his skin. The tears roll freely down his face now, but he doesn't care. There is nothing left to care about. As he drags the blade down his pale wrist he truly feels like he could let go. There is nothing left to hold onto. As he lifts the bloodied knife from his skin he stares at the seeping line it left in its wake, blinking slowly, uncomprehendingly at the wound. Not as much blood as he thought there would be. As the droplets roll unhurriedly from the crack the knife falls from his hand. He can't do the other one, not just yet.

Black. He knows it's not really black- he's seen blood before, seen it mere moments ago glistening on the knife's edge. But it looks black against his skin, dark in the dim light of the flickering candles. Slowly, sluggishly, he raises it to the light, watching in amazement as the crimson intensifies the closer he gets.

It's at that moment that he remembers Van Gogh's later works. Some were dark, sombre, melancholy, sure. Of course they were- his last great struggle.

Then there were others. Works of such colour and beauty they still inspire generations of artists, himself included. Works of optimism, of hope. Because that was one thing the unfortunate man always had- even in his last days, he hoped that he would get better. Hoped that one day he would be able to function again. As the black fades to brilliant scarlet, Kieren Walker thinks of beautiful colours, flooding the dark corners, blowing away the dust.

In that moment, he realises he didn't cut deep enough- the scratch, though long and angry, has not dug down to his vital veins, the flow will cease long before he runs out of blood to lose.

In that same moment, he realises that he can't cut any deeper.

The blood trickles down his hand as he stands up, but he knows it won't kill him. Whether it makes him stronger… well, that remains to be seen.

He doesn't bother putting out the candles. They'll burn themselves out before too long, as everything must.

He doesn't know what he's doing, where he's going. For all he knows he'll be right back in this place in a few days, or a few hours, and this time he won't hold back.

But right now, all his numb body can do is walk.

* * *

At that same moment, in a city several miles away under the same full moon, someone staggers on clumsy feet through the dark side streets, oblivious to the cold rain on his feverish skin.

As his foot slips on the slick tarmac he can barely even bring himself to curse- his tongue is too numb. He lurches off-balance, shoulder colliding with the hard brick wall at his side, but he's too far gone to care about the bruising.

He doesn't know why he's here, walking alone through the austere backstreets in the pouring rain. This wasn't how it usually happened. He didn't have a home anymore, but the grimy underpass he shared with three other addicts had been the closest he had for the last two months. Before that there had been the bedsit, and before that there was the shelter. For a while before that there had been the youth hostel in Philadelphia, the place he returned to every day as the sun came up after another night of searching for something he would never find.

In the end the place doesn't matter, it's not like he goes there for the scenery. Wherever it is that he hangs his hat, usually he merely sits there while he rides out his high. Not tonight. Tonight he needs to move. Moving, however, is growing harder with each step.

He knows with a dull certainty that he's gone too far. There's no pleasure left to cancel out the pain. One moment he feels like his body is a block of ice, the next he feels like each of his nerve endings has been set alight, raging like a forest fire. His skin crawls over his flesh, he feels like he could just shuck it off and keep on walking. Maybe the cold air on his flayed body would be enough to clear the fog from his mind, but he's not even sure if he wants that. Maybe this is just how it's supposed to be.

He's not sure how long he walks before his knees give out. He feels parts of his body shutting down and he's powerless to stop them. He doesn't _want _to stop them. He wonders how long it will last. How long until he's unconscious? How long until his heart and lungs give out under the strain? He'd heard of people dying within minutes of a lethal dose, and other, rarer cases in which the victim's lay awake and in pain for hours on end. Maybe it depends on the drug, or the user's level of tolerance. He hopes it isn't the latter- he'd have a long night ahead of him.

As his knees hit the unforgiving tarmac, grimy water soaking into the fabric of his jeans, he hears a muffled snap as something else hits the ground. He slowly turns his head, but the movement sends a fresh wave a nausea through his stomach and bile rises in his throat. As he retches onto the pavement, he stares forlornly at the battered remains of his phone on the ground at his side. He hadn't even realised he'd been holding it. He sees the green light flashing on the side. Flashing from a message he'd received two days ago. He hadn't even bothered to read it- he already knows what it says. And he doesn't want to hear it.

He reaches out and seizes the scruffy device, raising it above his head with what little strength remains in his limbs and dashing it once more against the ground. It doesn't break. "Feckin' Nokias," he mutters. Much easier to blame the 'indestructible phone' than to admit that his muscles are little more than tense strings of sinew at this point. He shoves it away, feeling satisfaction for a split second as it skids into a deep puddle before the pain hits again.

He groans, pitching forward and grazing his leather-clad elbows on the rough asphalt, skinning his cheek as it scrapes the hard ground. Just another dimension of pain to add to the already searing cacophony in his head. He rolls onto his side with a whimper as the pain roars through his veins. He pulls his sodden knees up to his stomach, curling in on himself as everything begins to slip away. Possibly for good this time. _Hopefully _for good this time.

_Your whole life. Twenty-seven years, a family, a future and the world at your fingertips, and you never once felt a thing._

As pain rips through him again, splitting him open and hollowing him out with deep, vicious strokes, Simon Monroe throws his head back in a silent scream.

_Feel it, now, can't you?_

* * *

Kieren has no idea what he is doing now. As his steps carry him further and further from the den, he finds himself approaching the deserted train station. He pays no mind to the blood seeping through the sleeve of his hoodie as he stands numbly at the platform beside the abandoned ticket office. As the next train glides to a stop, he doesn't even bother to check where it's bound. All he knows is that he has to move, and keep moving. There's nothing left for him here. He boards the closest dimly-lit carriage, not really caring who comes round checking tickets. Let them give him all the fines they want, nothing can keep him here.

As the train lurches forward, he stares vacantly back at Roarton for what he suspects might be the last time. He raises his hand to his face, chewing on his nails and not much caring what any of the exhausted commuters think of the dark blood staining the sleeve. It's not their concern. Instead of shying away from curious glances or dirty looks, he simply closes his eyes and allows his body to sway gently in time with the click of wheels on rails.

He doesn't know what he's looking for, but it's not in Roarton. He doesn't know where he's going, but it's somewhere else. These are things he knows, and right now that's all that matters. He doesn't even expect to find whatever it is he's searching for, but he knows that he doesn't even stand a chance if he stays at home and wallows in memories, taking tea with ghosts of the past.

If nothing else, he has to take a chance.

Because sometimes you just find things.

And, as the shuddering, feverish figure of Simon Monroe was less than five hours from finding out, sometimes things just find you.

* * *

**Well, there you have it- experimental first chapter! Let me know what you think, (I'm always open to reviews/PMs, either to talk about this or just talk in general) and if you want more I can keep posting it- for the first few chapters I can actually update pretty regularly as I already have them written (minus proof-reading, of course!), although the next few might not be published at weekends as I have some pretty hectic plans from the 23rd onwards (guess who's going LARPing!)**

**So yeah, really hope I haven't made anyone suicidal- I love you all so much! **

**(And don't worry, I will not neglect Broken Masks for this, it's just something I've wanted to write for ages and I'm finally getting it out of my system.)**

**Until next time! X**


	2. People Don't Care

**Hey, hey, hey! Me again!**

**Well, I got some pretty positive feedback from chapter one so I'm gonna keep this fic up! But don't worry, I'm pretty sure the first chapter was the darkest/goriest of the lot, it'll get easier from here! First few chapters are probably gonna be pretty short and sweet, but I imagine they'll get longer as time goes by. I only hope the ****standard holds up!**

**For those of you wondering when we're gonna get an appearance from the delightful Amy- don't worry, not long now 'til we meet the beautiful genius!**

**So, here's a short chapter for you, just getting things started up! Enjoy!**

******DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

******Chapter Two: People Don't Care**

* * *

Kieren isn't sure how long he aimlessly wanders the unfamiliar streets, really it could have been any amount of time from thirty minutes to thirty hours. What's even harder to pinpoint is the exact moment when he realised how stupid this whole idea was.

He's in a city, that much is clear- but honestly he has no idea which. He was in too much of a trance to glance at a sign on his way off the train. He knows he could work it out if he would just look up from the ground for ten seconds, but he's not sure he can lift his head that far anymore. All he knows is that the trance has worn off, and he's kicking himself for ever thinking this was a good plan.

He still doesn't even know what he's looking for. It had all felt very real and poetic last night, running away into the night to search for the meaning of life. Must have been the blood loss. Right now his head is at least partially clear, and he's in a strange city with no money, no phone, and no clothes apart from the ones on his back. He was already getting funny looks for the dried blood on his sleeve (not that anyone's offered to help or anything. People suck). Really the only thing he has going for him is the Swiss army knife tucked in the front pocket of his jeans, still stained from last night. Handy if someone decides to mug him. Or if he wants to do something else…

The cold feeling is still there, heavy on his heart, threatening to drag him under. As long as he keeps moving he can squash it down, but he doesn't know how long it can last. The temptation to finish what he started is right there, tugging his sleeve, fighting for attention.

He takes a deep breath, faltering in his steps. He closes his eyes for a second before he starts walking again, ignoring the disgruntled noises of harried pedestrians as they're forced to walk round and overtake him. He sets off once again at a brisk pace, determined not to get bogged down in it again. He doesn't think he'll be able to talk himself out of it second time round.

He could try to hitchhike, or wait until nightfall for another deserted train back to Roarton- less chance of getting caught if it's a graveyard shift, and if the ease with which he snuck a free ride last night is any indication the Roarton lines don't have the most vigilant staff. Or he could find a payphone, he might have enough change to call… someone.

He sighs wearily, running both his hands back through his hair. No, no one to call. He can't call his parents- what would he say? "Hi, yeah, sorry to bother you but I tried to run away and now I'm stuck in a random city with no money, can you give me a lift? Can't miss me, look for the blood-stained hoodie." Yeah, fucking fantastic.

"Well, gutter it is," he mutters, kicking a discarded can in his path angrily. It clatters loudly across the paving stones, eventually rattling to a stop at the mouth of an alleyway several feet ahead. He's just walking past it, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered, when he hears another sound beneath the hum of morning traffic and the relentless parade of impatient feet. He stops in his tracks. For a few moments he hears nothing but the sound of stressed commuters and tyres on tarmac, and he's just shaking his head and moving on when he hears it again, clearer this time. It sounds like a groan, drawn-out and pained, and it's coming from the alley he kicked the can into.

He looks around wide-eyed at the people in the area- folks on their way to work, tourists, shop owners, all manner of people in easy hearing distance of the sound. Not one person gives it a second glance.

For a second, Kieren forgets about the ice in his veins as it turns to fire. They don't care. Not one of them. Not one person has approached him all day despite his haunted look and his bloodied clothes, and not one person was making any effort to discover the source of the cry. No one cares. People don't care.

And so, in his desperation to prove himself wrong, Kieren takes his first tentative step into the shadows.

* * *

He's not sure what he expects to find. Maybe a muttering tramp, or a drunk passed out against a wall. His anger-fuelled courage is rapidly deserting him, and he's just considering turning round and walking right back out when he hears it again, quieter this time. Weaker.

He turns his head to the sound, taking a few steps further. There's a corner coming up, and it sounded like the voice was just past it. He is just berating himself for probably walking into some crafty mugger's clever trap when he puts a hand against the bricks and leans round, and the breath rushes from his lungs in a horrified gasp.

It's a man. A young man, black hair soaked with rain and sweat and pale skin marked with bruises. He's curled on his side in the foetal position, hugging his knees to his chest with clenched fingers. It's hard to tell if he's conscious or just having some kind of tormented fever dream, but his eyes are screwed shut and his entire body is shaking.

"Fuck," Kieren hisses, dropping to his knees beside the man and pressing his fingers against his neck, hand shaking as he seeks out the pulse point. When he finds it he doesn't need to be a doctor to know that his heart isn't beating a fast or strong as it should be.

"_Fuck_," he mutters again, all other words abandoning him. He glances back at the street the way he came and looks down at the prone form at his feet. There's no way he can carry him- even the tall man's emaciated, half-starved body looks too heavy for him to pick up, especially in his dizzy, blood-deprived state. Seeing no other option, and suspecting that no one out there will come to help unless they see the evidence right before their eyes, he walks around to the trembling man's head and pries his arms away from his knees, hooking his own hands under his armpits and pulling him back towards the main road.

It's agonisingly slow, and he winces guiltily every time he's forced to drag the man's shivering body over jutting cobblestones or debris, but he perseveres. He can't just quit now, not when he's so close. He grits his teeth and keeps pulling, creeping ever closer to the light of day.

When he reaches the mouth of the alley several people stop and stare. He doesn't have time to be polite.

"Call an ambulance!" he shouts, satisfied to see one woman nearby whip her phone from her pocket and dial frantically. She addresses the person on the other end, and it's just as well she does- Kieren doesn't currently know what _city _they're in, let alone what street. As he gently lowers the man to the ground one of the café owners (who had been rather preoccupied standing around doing nothing earlier) bustles out with an ice pack. Kieren snatches it from his hands, kneeling down beside the unconscious man and leaning over to press the pack to his boiling forehead. He's amazed that it doesn't melt on contact with his feverish skin. He hears the woman say something about an ambulance being on its way, and vaguely notices another shop owner dropping down on the man's other side to check his vital signs, but either he decides he's fine or there's nothing he can do because he makes no other move to help him. Kieren tunes them all out, focusing only on the ice in his hand and the man at his feet.

He _is_ young, he's sure of it now. Probably not even out of his twenties. His skin is incredibly pale- that and the track marks visible beneath the sleeve of his jacket suggest that this man dedicates most of his time to a certain indoor hobby. Undoubtedly what had got him into this mess in the first place. Probably hadn't seen the sun in years. His face is grazed and muddy, but he can tell it's an attractive face beneath the blood and grime. He probably would have thought more about that if he wasn't depressed and the man wasn't dying, but there was a time and a place for everything. Instead he just keeps the pack to his head, his face set in grim determination. He could easily pass the pack to someone else and move on, but for some reason he wants to see this through.

His calm facade is broken when the man's eyes flicker open. Pale blue, they look glazed, distant, most likely a residual effect from the nearly fatal high. They search around vacantly for a moment before they finally come to rest on Kieren's face, locking on but not clearing. His lips move, and Kieren knows he's trying to say something but his mouth isn't cooperating. Probably deciding on a question, too.

_Which is he going to pick- 'where am I' or 'what happened'?_

Kieren is amusing himself by mentally placing bets on which clichéd climbing-out-of-unconsciousness question the man's going to go for when he hears his voice, a deep voice rasping out from cracked lips.

"Who are you?"

Wasn't expecting that one. Kieren stares blankly at him, and it's his turn to flap his mouth uselessly in search of an answer. The man's eyes are on him, and his gaze is more intense than a semi-unconscious addict's should be. Kieren meets his gaze, and his name is on the tip of his tongue as he speaks.

"No one," he says quietly, smiling slightly and shaking his head as he returns his attention to the ice pack. "I'm no one."

He doesn't really feel like Kieren Walker anymore.

* * *

The man makes a few more struggling attempts to speak, but he's too far gone to choke out much more than a gasp and some fragmented syllables. Before long the ambulance arrives, and Kieren finds himself handing the ice to one of the paramedics in fluorescent jackets that cluster around the pale man's shuddering body. He is ushered back while they do their work, and he rubs his numb hand on his shirt. He hadn't realised at the time how cold the ice pack was making him.

He stands around for a while as the professionals do their thing, listening to odd snippets of conversation. As they begin lifting the mysterious man's prone body onto a stretcher, Kieren turns his back and walks. There's nothing left to be done here. He feels a strange pang of loss as he walks away from the chaos, but he disregards it. He can't really trust his own feelings anymore, after all.

By the time the paramedic with the ice pack turns around with a question on his lips, Kieren is already lost in the crowd.

* * *

**Well, there you have it! Join me next time, where we'll see a familiar face or two making an appearance!**

**Until next time! X**


	3. A Journey Starts, A Hunt Begins

**Chapter 3, yo!**

**Another pretty short one for ya- but on the bright side, this is where we welcome the beautiful Amy into the story! So, hope it's good for you- I have a few updates regarding my other ITF fics, but I'll put those at the end!**

**So, here we go again! Enjoy! :D**

**********DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

**Chapter Three: A Journey Starts, A Hunt Begins**

* * *

For a moment, all he can see is white. The glare stings his eyes, but he forces them open anyway, amazed that he still has eyes to open or a brain to do so.

It is white, but not in an unearthly way, not in a way to suggest that he'd somehow made it to the pearly gates. No, this white is stark, cold, polished to within an inch of its life. Glaring fluorescent lights reflect off the pale ceiling and illuminate the small room in a grotesquely unforgiving way. It takes him a few moments to adjust to the brightness, but he doesn't have time to consider the black spots in his vision. There's something else, something important…

He closes his eyes again to think and it hits him like a bolt of lightning, the image practically painted into his eyelids.

The man.

He hadn't seen him clearly, but he remembers the eyes- wide, dark, darker than any he'd ever seen, he was almost certain they had to be contacts. Concerned, too, staring down at him like he was afraid he might slip away, but why should he care? And his hair, somewhere between blond and red but shining like copper strands in the harsh light of day. What had he said…?

"No one," Simon rasps, his chapped lips sticking together slightly as the words roll from his tongue. "I'm no one…"

The words bother him. No one sticks their neck out for anyone without wanting something in return- money, favours, or at the very least recognition. No one saves a stranger's life and then remains anonymous, that isn't how it works. Right now, Simon can't tell what he hates most about the mysterious man- that he would save his life when he didn't want it saved, or that he would completely undermine everything he thought he knew about the world in the process. Although the logical side of his brain tells him he should probably be grateful for the stranger's intervention, he can't deny that he's completely fucking livid as well.

He sits up too quickly, his head spinning and his back clicking. He moves as if to stand up before he notices something holding him back, and looks to his arm to find it plugged into an IV. He's contemplating ripping it out like they do in the movies (despite knowing what a horribly bad idea that really is) when he hears brisk footsteps enter the room. He looks up, blinking against the blots in his vision.

A stern-faced nurse approaches him, and he barely has time to rasp out an excuse or a demand before she's pressing him back against the pillows, checking his IV drip and telling him in a solid no-nonsense tone to settle down while she does some check-ups. He considers just following through with his original plan, but she has the vibe of someone who could get the upper hand in a scuffle even if he wasn't bleary-eyed and heavy-limbed, so he sits back and leaves her to it. More chance of them letting him out if he just plays along.

As he settles back onto the pillows and his head rolls to the side, his eyes fall on the doorway. Someone is standing there, hand on the frame for support. Her dark hair is windswept, and the dark circles under her eyes are more defined than when he'd last seen them, but she is as unmistakable as ever.

He curses quietly. They must have found his wallet, checked his I.D. and called her. Well, who else were they going to call? He turns his head away to the window, silently hoping that she'll take the hint. He hears the nurse direct some words at her, straight-forward observations designed to provide reassurance. Whatever she says, it does the trick.

He hears a sigh, small and sad that pierces him to the core, followed by the click of heels on vinyl as she leaves.

Maybe this will be the last time.

More than anything, he just wants her to give up.

* * *

As the dark-haired woman shuffles quietly through the sterilised corridors, she passes a room with the door ajar. Inside the room, a pretty girl with flowing brown hair nervously adjusts the hem of her petticoat, brushing her dress down self-consciously as she looks in the tiny mirror. She looks like death warmed up, but there's really only so much a bit of foundation can do when all's said and done.

A small knock on the door brings her to attention, and she plasters a beam onto her face as she turns to the sound.

An elderly woman stands in the doorway, and the girl smiles as she takes her in. The old woman's hair is braided down her back, fine ribbons of black and lilac adorning the silver strands. In her hand dangles a pretty lace parasol, which she habitually taps against the floor beside her leather lace-up boots.

"Are you quite sure about this?" She asks, her old voice still as strong and sure as it had ever been.

The girl smiles enthusiastically, nodding as she turns to zip up her suitcase. "Yeah, 'course I am!"

"I don't want you to overstrain yerself," the old woman insists, the tapping of her parasol turning slightly nervous. "What with yer-"

"Nan," she interjects, turning to meet her grandmother's concerned gaze with a reassuring smile. "Cor, yer such a worrywart! I'll be fine- hospitals only 'alf an hour away, anyhow. Y'know, in case of…" she gulps, turning her face down to the zip that as always insists on getting stuck halfway round. "Complications."

Her grandmother doesn't look convinced, but she nods anyway. The girl smiles- she knew she wouldn't say no. No one wanted to begrudge a dying girl a last request, after all. The zip finally unsticks, and she hefts the fastened bag off the bed with a small grunt of effort she tries her best to hide. No point in worrying her dear Nan any more than necessary. She turns around, beaming with as much energy as she can muster at her sceptical relative.

"So," she says brightly, waving towards the door. "Lead the way!"

As her feet follow the clicking heels and her eyes follow the swishing plait, she thinks of Roarton. The town of her birth, that nondescript little village that housed her mother's final resting place. A town she's never lived in, or even had the chance to visit besides the odd weekend with her eccentric grandmother, housed as she was in the next town over under the watchful eye of a protective father. It seems so ridiculous to her, that she should live so close to such an important place for close to eighteen years of her young life and still know so little about it. Well, something has to be done about that.

With a deep breath and a brave smile, Amy Dyer sets out on her first and final pilgrimage.

* * *

When he gets the all-clear from the doctors, it's all Simon can do not to leap out of bed and sprint from the ward. It takes too long, hours of tests, tutting over charts and disapproving glances. At one point he has several brochures about drug addiction and rehab facilities dropped at his side, which he brushes into the waste paper basket at the first opportunity. Nothing in those things he doesn't know already.

When he finally gets the stupid tubes removed from his arm he wastes no time in getting into his own clothes, not much caring about the grime that cakes his jeans and jacket. Anything's better than those ridiculous gowns they force them into. Besides, he has more important things on his mind- well, _one_ more important thing.

When he escapes the cloying atmosphere of the hospital he inhales an enormous lungful of fresh (relatively speaking) city air, realising that it's a breath he never thought he'd take. For some reason his strange, pointless little life goes on, and so far he hasn't decided whether to be grateful or pissed off. Either way, there's someone he needs to find.

Unfortunately, he hasn't the foggiest idea where to start.

He closes his eyes, racking his brain for the answer. Where had he been walking? He has no fucking clue- it had been dark and rainy, his brain had been stewing in a soup of concentrated chemicals, all he knew was that he'd left the underpass and walked until he could walk no more.

"Oi, you all right, mate?"

It takes him a minute to realise the voice is addressing him. He turns his head.

A man, short and stocky with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, leans against the hood of a parked ambulance. The fluorescent bib on his chest is unfastened, and his hands are in his pockets. Simon realises he must have been standing still for at least five minutes with a pained expression on his face, and is just formulating an excuse when the man's eyes widen in recognition.

"I know you!" he exclaims proudly, taking the fag from his mouth and tapping away the ash. "Cor, they let you out quick, din't they?"

He sees Simon's confused look and chuckles. "I picked you up, drove the ambulance," he pats the hood as if he thinks Simon needs help knowing what an ambulance is. "In a right state, you were," he glances up the road in the direction Simon had been staring. "Waiting for yer friend?"

That gets his attention. "My friend?"

"Yeah. That ginger bloke what was crouching over yeh," he says, stubbing out his cigarette. "Din't see where he went, just seemed to disappear into thin air. Din't even leave a name- had to search yer wallet to find a number to call," he winks jokily. "Don't worry, promise yer we din't touch yer cash."

Simon advances on him, his gaze piercing. "You were there?"

The man looks taken aback, blinking in the face of the Irish man's intensity. "Er, yeah, yeah I was. Someone has to man the wheel, y'know?"

If he'd been in a more poetic mood, he might have considered how oddly perfect his timing was, how he had been released in search of his mysterious saviour just as the one man who could tell him where to look had decided to pop out for a fag. But right now, with the fresh air he never thought he'd inhale again racing through his lungs and only one image circling his mind, he asks the only question he needs to know.

"And where exactly _did _you find me?"

* * *

**Yay, we're getting closer to a proper meeting now! :D**

**Well, hope it lived up to expectations- you've probably guessed the identity of the mysterious dark-haired woman already, but I'll leave that up to you for the time being xD**

**Now, quick fic notice: Broken Masks is in progress, but it is also currently the fic I'm struggling the most to write. That's the annoying thing about sticking so close to the canon in fanfic- sometimes you don't feel you have room to move, sometimes you get paranoid about your fact and continuity checking, and all in all that can make writing a pretty slow process, especially if you're bursting with other ideas you wanna write. Frankly at this point I'm looking forward to the sequel more than the main story! But don't worry, not long now- possibly next week, I've got a crazy weekend ahead! **

**I'm also currently working on something else- a little AU, probably a three-chapter job, cute little thing about Kier as a PDS model (for cover-up mousse and whatnot) and Si as a photographer. Romance ensues, obvs. It's kind of silly but I'm actually immensely proud of what I've got so far and I haven't been able to stop writing, so the first chapter of that is already up with more to come- sorry, I know those of you waiting for BM are probably pretty frustrated with all the distractions I'm making for myself! xD**

**So yeah, that's about it from me- until next time! :D**


	4. A Miraculous Vanishing Act

**Well, here's another one!**

**Hey, maybe we're gonna get a proper meeting this time! Have to wait and see, won't ya! ;) Actually, I think more than one meeting may be occurring this time! **

**Enjoy!**

**************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

**Chapter Four: A Miraculous Vanishing Act**

* * *

He has no idea how long he's been walking, but he knows it's been long enough for the sun to rise and the birds to sing. Had he been in a more artistic frame of mind he might have marvelled at the sight, witnessing dawn rising over a strange city. Right now, though, it just serves as a grim reminder that he hasn't slept in close to fifty hours.

His fingers trail over a carved stone balustrade, and he slows to a halt as he realises what he's standing on. He looks down at the rushing water, leaning his elbows on the barrier and craning his neck. The current races thick and black below the bridge, and he wonders how deep it is. How far would he have to sink to be swallowed by the cold, cloying mud of the riverbed?

He knows that his feet must be covered in blisters and his stomach is turning from hunger, but he is struggling to care. It all feels distant now, all the aches and pains feel like they might as well belong to another body. There's enough turmoil in his mind that a little outer pain is really here nor there.

Instead of dwelling on the pain he just stands and stares, watching the currents sweep past. He sees a fallen branch, tossing and writhing with the tide as the icy river carries it downstream. He wonders how long it will keep going, how long until it sinks below the surface or gets dashed against the shore. The angry brown-black surge carries it along like it weighs nothing. It may as well be nothing for all the river cares.

He isn't even aware that he is leaning forward until he hears the voice.

"I wouldn't if I were you."

He knows that voice just as surely as he knows it's addressing him. He whips around, his hand still clenched on the balustrade.

The dark-haired man who owed him his life grimaced back, shrugging with his hands in his pockets.

"It's really feckin' cold."

* * *

After an hour long train ride in which she'd almost thrown up twice, Amy Dyer found herself once again in the town of her birth. Less than two hours later, and she is walking around it wondering how exactly a place can even _get _this boring.

Unfortunately, while the place had its fair share of pretty houses, nice gardens and rustic shops, no amount of decorative flower beds could diffuse the overwhelmingly bleak atmosphere. If she had to pick a colour to describe Roarton, she could only say grey. Medium grey. Not as clear and fresh as light grey and not as thick and sinister as dark. Just somewhere unbelievably middle-ish. And unfortunately, the people seem as coarse and colourless as their surroundings. She's already had several nosy and suspicious looks thrown her way. For a while she found herself wondering if they had some kind of local unspoken law about wearing coloured clothes in public, or maybe there was some kind of one underskirt limit no one had told her about. But the more looks she got the more she realised it just wasn't the kind of place that had much to do with outsiders.

She's just peeking into shop windows, silently chastising this toneless town for failing to uphold the ancient traditions of picturesque English villages (specifically the ones pertaining to creating a welcoming atmosphere to clueless out-of-towners), when she sees someone in the window of the nearby corner shop. She notices that he's taping a poster to the inside of the glass, and takes a few steps closer to investigate.

A grainy black and white picture adorns the centre of the paper, a photo of a ridiculously pretty boy with dark eyes and hair almost as pale as his skin. The word 'MISSING' is printed in stark capitals above his face.

A moment later someone emerges from the shop, and she turns to see the man who'd taped up the poster. He does an almost comical double-take when he sees her, and looks so confused she feels moved to help him out.

"I'm new in town," she explains, smiling reassuringly. So far the man wasn't giving her any weird looks, which was more than she'd had all day.

His expression remains blank for a moment before realisation dawns. "Are you, um, Dorothy Dyer's…?"

"Weird dying granddaughter?" she finishes for him, smiling at his awkward blush. "Yep. That's me. I see my reputation precedes me!"

"Oh, um, yeah. Dorothy, she, uh, talks about you a lot," he stammers, awkwardly shifting his stack of posters under one arm and extending his hand. "I'm Philip. Philip Wilson. Phil. Yeah."

Amy feels like she wants to be annoyed by his blundering way of speaking, but it warms her a little. It's pretty obvious that he's not talking awkwardly out of disdain or suspicion. She takes his hand and gives it a firm shake, smiling at him. "Nice to meet you, Philip! I'm Amy."

A small smile tips up the corners of his mouth, and his blush increases. Amy politely pretends not to notice, instead nodding to the posters under his arm. "Working hard, I see?"

"Oh, yeah," he says bashfully, fiddling with the edges of the papers. "Just on a kind of volunteer basis at the moment. New council elections aren't until the spring so, um…"

Amy smiles, turning her attention back the poster in the window. "So, who's this bloke you lot are trying to find? Anyone you know?"

Philip nods, readjusting the stack of paper in his arms and standing beside her to look at the window. "Yeah. Used to go to school together. His parents haven't seen him in a couple of days."

"Well, it's not exactly a big place," Amy reasons, scanning the grainy photo. "Not exactly many places he could go…"

Philip shrugs. "You'd think. But no one's seen hide nor hair of him in two days, so he must have found somewhere."

"Yeah, must have," Amy mused quietly, weirdly intrigued by the strange boy and his miraculous vanishing act. She read the text below the picture, and two words stood out to her.

"Kieren Walker," she murmured, searching his black eyes for answers. "Where are you hiding?"

* * *

Simon didn't know how long he searched high and low for the mysterious man to whom he owed his life. All he knew was that in the time he'd been combing the streets the sun had set and risen again, the Earth continuing its endless rotation while he scoured its surface.

He'd started out at the place where he'd been found, practically sprinting towards the street the second the ambulance driver gave him the name. He found himself in the alley again, the street outside thriving as usual, like nothing had even happened. He'd found his battered phone in the puddle where he'd left it, and pocketed it even though he knew he probably wouldn't get any use out of it anymore, but found no other signs of his presence or the presence of his quarry. He emerged back out onto the street, desperately seeking information and finding it with the help of a startled-looking café owner (who prefaced the conversation by asking if he was okay or needed another ice pack. Simon wasn't sure he liked that so many people now seemed to know him without him realising, so he ignored the question and pursued his own enquiries).

He'd walked through the afternoon, the evening, the small hours of the morning, too fixated on his hunt to care about the insistent tingles reminding him that he'd had his system completely purged and should probably be doing something about it. That could wait a while, but if he let the trail of the mysterious man grow any colder he'd lose him for good.

Morning rolled round, and he finally struck lucky. A pair of girls (art students, at a guess) sat outside a coffee shop drinking pointlessly massive mugs of hot chocolate. The tall, green-haired one had flipped through her sketchbook, eventually finding a hasty line drawing of the man he searched for (while the shorter red-and-blond haired girl quietly rambled about how gorgeous his eyes had been. Simon would have stopped her, but he kind of had to agree). After they pointed him in the direction of a nearby park he barely had time to thank them before he was sprinting away.

And now here he is. Standing on the bridge in the park, and even from the back he knows who is leaning over the railing.

He wants to be angry. He honestly wants to yell at this stupid man who saved his worthless life. He is still convinced he would have been better off if he'd just been allowed to quietly die on his own time, without this complete stranger swooping in at the last minute. But he finds his anger tempered somewhat by two things. The first thing is the blood staining the strange man's sleeve, patchy and faded as though it had seeped through from the inside. The other is the way his body is leaning forward, creeping gradually closer to the rushing water as if he's weighing up the pros and cons of just letting himself fall in. It is these two factors that make him speak out calmly instead of aggressively when all he really wants to do is yell.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he calls out.

The man turns around, and Simon's breath hitches.

Whatever blurry image he'd had in his head didn't do the man justice. In person his hair glints in the rising sun, his pale skin practically glows. There were other things his drugged mind had omitted, things like the bruise-like shadows beneath his eyes and the sallowness of his cheeks, but right now he can't focus on any of those. All he can do is stare at his eyes.

"It's really feckin' cold," he explains lamely, pushing his hands into his pockets. "I should know. Taken a couple o' dunks in there, myself. Y'know how it is. Go to a party, one drink too many…"

The man stares at him as he rambles, and he remains fixated on his eyes even though his logical mind is telling him he should probably stop staring. Yes, his eyes are impossibly dark, he knew that much already, but there's something more. In the split second after he'd turned around, they'd looked distant, almost completely blank, something like muted despair shining from their depths. Though the flicker of recognition as he laid eyes on Simon pushed the darkness back a little, he could still see it there lurking in the shadows. His eyes seem more suited to a traumatised war veteran than an attractive young man in his prime. Eyes that showed a lost boy, old before his time.

The remaining shreds of his anger dissolve as the man speaks.

"They let yeh out quickly," he states, his voice hoarse from lack of use (or possibly dehydration) as he looks Simon's bedraggled form up and down.

Simon chuckles before he can stop himself. "Y'know that's the third time I've heard that in the last twelve hours?"

The boy laughs too, and Simon is transfixed by the sound. He slowly takes a few steps closer, standing beside the man just as he turns around and once again leans his arms on the barrier. Simon follows suit, until they are side by side looking out across the raging river.

"Right state you got yerself in back there," the man says, glancing sideways at him.

Simon nods in agreement. "Yeah. Yeah, it was."

"Deliberate?"

Simon is taken aback by the question. It's not the kind of thing people usually ask. He looks back at the man, and sees complete honesty and understanding in his eyes. It's difficult to look at, so he turns his face back to the water.

"Sort of," he mutters, looking down at his hands as he rubs the warmth back into them. He glances briefly back at the man's blood-soaked sleeve. "How about you?"

The boy tugs at the offending sleeve self-consciously, offering a wordless nod in response.

"So," Simon says, changing the subject after a moment of tense silence. "Is your name really 'No One' or did yeh think I was a cyclops?"

The poor man looks so utterly bewildered by the question that Simon rushes once again into hurried explanations. "Like in the Odyssey. When Odysseus gets trapped by Polyphemus and tells him 'is name is Nobody so when he calls out for help the other cyclopes think he's just talking to himself… never mind."

The bewildered expression is still in place, but it seems to be tinged with amusement now. "Oh, okay. No, I didn't think you were a cyclops. I was just…" he shrugs, turning back to the river. "I was just telling the truth."

Simon opens his mouth to protest, but realises he has absolutely no idea what to say to that. He keeps his mouth shut, sneaking glances at the fair-haired man when he thinks he isn't looking. Initial awe aside, he can't help noticing how sickly the man looks. His slender hands tremble on the stonework and his puffy eyes stare across the water with a haunted expression. It all looks a bit too familiar- Simon could guess from personal experience that the kid probably hadn't slept or eaten in days. This brief pause at the water's edge was probably the longest he'd been on his feet without moving the whole time, he looks like he could collapse at any second without the sturdy barrier holding him upright.

The logical side of his brain (which he seems to be ignoring with alarming frequency at the moment) says to just say his thanks and leave. It's not his problem, whatever the guy has going on is nothing to do with him. He sees younger kids in much worse shape every day, it's not exactly a rare sight nor is it one he concerns himself with. There are some situations where it's best to just not get involved.

Still, the strange man had thrown that rule out the window when he'd saved his life. He supposed the least he could do was return the favour.

"You hungry?" he asks.

For a moment the man just stares at him, and it is clear in his expression that he's going to say no. Simon understands- clearly the kid has some serious bullshit in his life, probably the last thing he wants to do is go out for breakfast with a complete stranger he'd found drugged in a ditch. Still, Simon can't help feeling a little disappointed.

But then the man's face softens, and he looks both confused and disbelieving as he answers.

"Starving."

* * *

**Well, there you have it!**

**So, they're finally together! Now for the slow build :3 (Although maybe not so slow. Hearts will be opened in the next chapter.)**

**Oh, and I'm working on the assumption that in 2009 Philip was about 18/19 (seeing as he used to hang out with Kier and Rick when they were kids I'm just assuming they were about the same age). And Amy I believe was 21 when she died, so yeah they're not too far apart- and as you can see fresh-out-of-sixth-form-Phil is already trying to get his foot in the door of the local council! Oh, that boy!**

**It's a good thing I've got a few chapters of this basically written already 'cause I have got a couple of HECTIC weekends ahead! Not going to have all that much time for new writing- my next focus is another chapter of Broken Masks, I guess, I'd rather not leave ya waiting too long for that! Although TMSYC will probably be updated before too long, as well!**

**Well, until next time! **


	5. Pure Coincidence

**It's me, again!**

**Right, once this is posted I'm dedicating this week to Broken Masks 'cause I've left it waaaayyy too long to update! **

**So, are you ready for some proper Siren interaction and hearts laid open over eggs and toast? Yeeeeeaaaaaah, 'course you are!**

**Oh, and plenty of references to drug use/self harm in this chapter, so tread carefully! Enjoy!**

******************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Some original dialogue taken from s2e2 in this chapter, so credit to Dom the incredibly talented original writer!**

* * *

******************Chapter Five: Pure Coincidence**

* * *

Why _did I agree to this?_

He glances up at the dark-haired man seated across from him, but looks back down at his hands immediately as he feels the gaze returned. He doesn't know why he's here. As well as obvious reasons of the 'you met this guy drugged and unconscious in an alley and don't even know his name yet' variety, he doesn't particularly enjoy feeling like he needs some random stranger to bail him out of trouble. It's only now, sat across the table from the mysterious stranger at a slightly dingy diner, with the mouth-watering smell of sizzling bacon wafting from the kitchen that he remembers he doesn't care if he starves. Somehow that completely slipped his mind when he was asked to breakfast.

He almost laughs out loud. Breakfast. Eating breakfast with a handsome (not that that has anything to do with… oh, never mind) man off the street. He hadn't even made it this far with Rick.

And just like that, what remains of his appetite is gone.

He's trying to decide whether he could get away with just standing up and leaving when the man speaks.

"How long since you last ate anythin'?"

Kieren shrugs, fiddling with his bloody sleeve self-consciously. "Dunno. Couple o' days."

The man raises his eyebrows. "Well, that's healthy," he says dryly.

"Do I really look like I give a shit at the moment?" Kieren snaps, gesturing to his dishevelled hair and grimy clothes.

He looks him up and down. "Guess not," he says quietly. "Any particular reason for that?"

Kieren sighs heavily, returning his attention to his ragged sleeves. "I don't want to talk about it."

The man shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says, lifting his legs onto the seat beside him and leaning against the window languorously, shrugging out of his jacket. Kieren silently curses him for somehow having fantastic arms for an addict (track marks and bruises aside). Still, even if he's slightly irritated with the man he can tell that there is actually some honest concern beneath the indifferent façade, so Kieren decides he'll at least play with his food a bit before leaving. That way the man can consider his debt repaid and they can part ways, no hard feelings.

Of course, that plan of action only lasts as long as it takes to be served. The second he finds the sweet-smelling (if slightly cheap and cheerful) food right in front of his nose it's all he can do not to dive in headfirst. He's too tired for willpower.

"Slow down," the man advises, prodding at his eggs but making no effort to eat.

"Shut up," Kieren mutters through a mouthful of toast, coaxing an earthy chuckle from the man opposite. He tries not to think about what a pleasant sound it is.

"Thank you."

Kieren's head shoots up, and he realises that for the first time all morning the man's eyes aren't on him. Instead he's looking down at his food, pushing his baked beans around with his fork. He won't meet his gaze.

"What for?" Kieren asks, confused.

The man finally looks up, staring him down. "For saving my life?" he says slowly.

"_Oh,_" Kieren says, realisation dawning. "Sorry, sorry, that was just kind of… out of the blue."

The man shrugs. "Yeah, well. I don't thank people much. Bit out o' practise."

Kieren nods understandingly. He isn't sure exactly why the man isn't used to expressing gratitude- it was either because he wasn't a nice person or he felt he didn't have much to be thankful for. At a guess, probably the latter.

The dark-haired man clears his throat, changing the subject in a transparent effort to recover from his moment of weakness. "So, where yeh from?" he asks in a feeble attempt at small talk. He clearly doesn't expect an answer.

"Roarton," Kieren replies. He doesn't really know why.

"Never 'eard of it," the man frowns.

"Well, you wouldn't 'ave," Kieren snorts. "It's a sleepy village in the middle of nowhere where dreams go to die."

The man looks surprised by his forcefulness. "Ah. I see. That why yeh left?"

"For starters."

"That why you…" he doesn't finish the sentence, choosing instead to nod towards the redhead's bloodied sleeve.

Kieren shrugs. "Yeah, I guess, among other reasons. I just…" he looks back down at his plate, picking forlornly at the remaining crumbs of toast. "I just… wanted it all to stop."

The man nods, and Kieren actually feels a little bit of the weight lift from his chest. It's not much, but it's something. The man makes no effort to tell him it was a stupid decision, or press him for details, and Kieren can't help feeling grateful for the sympathetic ear. He looks up from his food, looking the man up and down from his scuffed boots to his messy hair. "What about you? Why were you…" he thinks back to the previous day, the man shuddering in the throes of a drug-induced seizure. He doesn't know how to say it. "Y'know?"

He doesn't answer, just makes some vague gesture with his hand and turns his gaze to the window. Kieren sighs, returning his attention to his plate and leaning his head on his hand. He doesn't have much of an appetite anymore. The man must feel guilty, because a few seconds later he speaks again.

"Ever been so depressed it felt like every nerve ending in your body was exposed, red and raw?"

Kieren looks at him and knows that the man is already regretting his words. It's obviously something he doesn't like to talk about. Kieren nods to reassure him- it's a feeling he knows all too well.

Relieved, the man keeps on talking, his eyes on the cars that race past outside the grubby window. "Just sort o' feels like if I take enough chemicals, it can dampen down those feelings for a bit."

"Why so depressed?" Kieren asks without thinking. He knows that if the boot was on the other foot he wouldn't want to be asked, but he can't help feeling curious.

The man sighs, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the window. "Way I'm wired, I s'pose," he opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. "Since the day I could think I've had this _idea _in my mind. Just, this piercing notion that… life is completely meaningless. Me and everyone else, we're just treading water until our bodies give out and we sink back into the darkness."

He turns his head to Kieren, and smiles humourlessly as he runs his hand back through his hair. "When yeh feel like that twenty-four seven you might as well get fucked up beyond belief," he says quietly, and Kieren is stricken by the look in his eyes. He looks open, vulnerable. Broken. "'Cause you don't believe in anythin' in the first place."

Kieren stares at him. He feels like this nameless man has just told him something he's never shared before. It feels strange, the amount of trust placed in him by a virtual stranger. No one's shared with him like this before- not even Jem, who always closed off before the conversation could get too serious (one of the few respects in which she took after her father). Not even Rick. Well, that one wasn't surprising. Despite their best friend/soul mate status, they'd never actually… well, _talked._

And so, because he feels grateful for the trust placed in him and feels like it's unfair to leave the damaged man exposed without giving anything in return, he finally speaks.

"I believed in something once. Well, some_one_."

The man looks up at him, and doesn't look away for a second as Kieren spills his heart open.

"But the fucking idiot messed that up," he laughs bitterly, shaking his head. "Or maybe I did, I don't know. Maybe we were just always doomed, two walkin' disasters. Maybe it would have been better if we'd just never met, but…" he shrugged. "I wouldn't have wanted it. Life without 'im. Still don't, but… well, here I am. I'm 'ere and he's not, and that's that."

He isn't aware that he's crying until he sees a tear splatter onto the table below him. He blinks furiously, trying to hold back the tides. For the first time in days, since he'd first started his endless walk and allowed the hunger and fatigue to numb his body, he feels the grief tearing into him.

"And he's not comin' back," he chokes, clenching his fist around his blood-stained sleeve. "Not this time."

His shoulders are shaking, he feels chilled to the bone. A day and a night of walking alone in the cold and rain finally catching up to his tired body.

He feels his choking sobs halt abruptly as something heavy settles around his shoulders. He opens his eyes, blinking through the tears. He sees something on the table at his side- a tattered black sleeve, limply draped over the table. He follows it up and finds the rest of the worn leather jacket draped over his back, almost swallowing him whole. He looks up just in time to see the man settle back into place opposite him, once again leaning against the window, this time without the jacket pillowed at his back.

"Better eat up before it gets cold," he says, smiling comfortingly (and slightly anxiously) at Kieren's tear-tracked face. "Get your strength up. Can't survive on grief and adrenaline forever."

Kieren nods dazedly, picking up his fork and prodding at his bacon. Something occurs to him.

"Kieren," he blurts.

The man looks at him, confused. "What?"

"My name," he says, blushing. "It's Kieren."

The Irish man smiles at him, a sad smile tinged with just a little hopefulness. "Simon."

Kieren nods, and returns to his food. Simon does the same, and a strange companionable silence falls over the table. As Kieren polishes off the remains of his rapidly cooling breakfast, nothing but the muffled sounds of traffic and chatter in his ears, he feels a strange feeling, deep in his stomach, small and shy but vaguely familiar.

Right now, sat across from this strange, broken man he hardly knows, he feels content.

* * *

Amy sighs heavily as she sits, hoping the damp wood of the bench doesn't leave hideous stains on her dress. She's getting pretty bloody fed up of this cancer nonsense. How is she supposed to do all the sight-seeing she wants if she has to sit down and catch her breath every ten minutes?

"Amy?"

She looks up and smiles as Philip walks into view. "Afternoon!" she says brightly. She looks him up and down, noticing the awkward way he's fidgeting on the spot. "And what brings you to this neck of the woods?" she asks conversationally.

He fiddles with his sleeve and blushes slightly. "Um, well, I, uh, forgot to pack my lunch, so… me mum's bringing it and we're having a picnic…"

He looks like he'd appreciate it if the ground just cracked open and swallowed him up. Amy giggles- picnics with his mum, how very cool and mysterious. "Sounds delightful," she chortles, standing up. "Better leave yeh to it, eh? Say hi to yer mum, for me!"

"You, er," he mutters, once again looking down at his feet. "You don't have to leave if yer don't want. I mean, unless you have other plans…"

Amy shrugs, pulling her cardigan tighter around her torso and glancing around at the deserted park. "I wouldn't say _plans. _More like a long, formless search for something I'm not entirely sure I'm going to find…" she looks up, Philip is looking at her with a mixture of confusion and concern. She offers him a reassuring smile. "But, well, I s'pose I don't have to rush off on me wild goose chase just yet!"

The smile that lights his face is so heart-warmingly innocent she can imagine a puppy tail wagging at his back. He glances over her shoulder and his face once again falls back into embarrassment. "Oh, er, that's my…"

Amy turns around, and sees a smiling woman in a yellow woolly beret approaching them, a blanket under her arm and a basket swinging from her grasp.

Philip looks like he's working out what to say to his rapidly approaching mother. Amy decides to take the lead on this one- might as well, he looks like he's managed to swallow his own tongue at this point.

"Ms. Wilson, I presume?" she greets the woman brightly, extending her hand. "Hi! Amy Dyer!"

The woman raises her eyebrow at Philip momentarily, but returns Amy's smile with another just as warm. "Ah, yeh must be Dorothy's girl! Nice to meet yer- and please, call me Shirley!"

Amy nods, beaming at Philip over her shoulder. "Ooh, first name terms! Guess who's popular!" she sings, and his face reddens.

Shirley laughs, handing the basket over to Philip who takes it hurriedly (and promptly hides his face behind it). "Joining us fer lunch, Amy?" Shirley asks, glancing at Philip (is that a touch of hope in her voice?).

Amy bobs her head, clasping her hands behind her back. "If yer don't mind, Shirl," she says, elbowing Philip gently. "This one was rather insistent."

"Ooh, I bet 'e was," Shirley laughs, unfurling the blanket and offering Amy two of the corners. "Come on, then- plenty to go around!"

Amy beams, taking the corners and helping Shirley spread the blanket across the prickly grass. There are certainly worse people to have lunch with.

* * *

Kieren is walking again. He's really been living up to his name these past few days. Once again his thoughts are miles away, but this time focused on something different. He doesn't find himself considering his situation, thinking about the scab on his wrist or the knife in his pocket. No, something else is on his mind now. Or rather someone else.

Simon. Funny, now that he knows the strange man's name he can't picture it being anything else. He shivers- the only problem with clarity of thought was he could no longer shut himself off from his body and the November chill was an unkind mistress. He finds himself missing the leather jacket he'd politely handed over to Simon as they'd parted ways, muttering a thank you and receiving a quiet grunt in return. Apparently the man was just as uncomfortable with receiving thanks as he was with giving them. They'd parted with a nod and an awkward handshake, and Kieren had walked away in the knowledge that this spontaneous breakfast date/counselling session with the (possibly homeless) druggie had been a one-time deal. Now that Simon's debt had been repaid, at least partly, there really was no reason to see each other again.

Kieren doesn't know if he feels _better, _exactly. Less suicidal, sure. Slightly warmer with a full stomach, definitely. But not better, not by a long shot. One surprisingly therapeutic breakfast rant at the man he'd dragged out of a ditch wasn't going to plaster over the pain of a lost love and a lifetime of misery. But he feels different. A little less empty- like before he was in a bottomless pit with no light and clawing hands grasping at nothing, and after days of scrabbling for purchase he's finally found a handhold. It's rough and small, and there's no telling if he's going to be able to find enough other jutting rocks to pull himself from the shadows, but it's progress.

One thing's for sure, it's enough of a start that he actually _feels. _Enough to know that he was disappointed to see Simon go. That was unusual- he didn't think there was anything left that could possibly disappoint him anymore, everything that could possibly go wrong had _gone _wrong. Surely nothing else really mattered?

He is so lost in thought that he barely notices the sun progressing in its arc across the sky, and by the time he hears the echo of his feet landing on hollow concrete the air is tinged deep orange, pink and grey clouds drifting lazily across the winter sky. He looks down at his feet, confused by the sound, then his eyes widen as he realises where he is.

For the first time in three days, he's managed to walk in circles. He's back at the bridge, he recognises the bare trees at its base and the stone balustrade where he and Simon had stood side by side, looking out over the icy waters.

His brow furrows as he crosses the bridge, settling slowly down on a bench just off the path at the other end. He doesn't know how or why he's come back here- he hasn't been paying particular attention to his route over the last sixty hours or so, but he knows that he hasn't gone the same direction twice. What would be the point of that? If he was still searching for something he was hardly going to find it if he kept searching the same spots.

He sighs heavily, bracing his aching legs as he prepares to stand up and continue his journey, when he hears a familiar voice behind him.

"Didn't think you'd be back."

He turns his head, and blinks against the glare of the setting sun.

Simon stands at the foot of the bridge, hands deep in his pockets and an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He takes it out and slips both it and the closed lighter back into his pockets, taking a few cautious steps closer to the bench.

"Not that I'm complainin'," he mutters, smiling down at Kieren and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, further ruffling his dishevelled black hair.

Kieren stares back at him for a moment, and the silence is deafening.

But before he even knows what he's doing he scoots along the bench a little, clearing a space at the end for the hovering Irish man. After a split second of hesitation, Simon takes the offer, their shoulders brushing as he settles into place. Kieren glances at him, and smiles.

Maybe winding up back here hadn't been quite so accidental.

* * *

**Ta-dah! **

**So, how was their first proper interaction for yeh? Feedback is always welcome! (Also I apologise if the AMmy storyline is a bit sub-plot-ish but I just wanted to feature her even though this is predominantly a Siren story. Her role may be small, but it's vitally important!)**

**Until next time, my loves! X**


	6. Don't Let Me Down

**Yay, another chapter, woooo!**

**Well, I'm glad these two are finally interacting- it's much more fun to write with them both in the scene! By the way I'm not sure yet but I think this fic's probably gonna round out at about 15 chapters or so. That's what the first draft says, anyhoo!**

**Well, enjoy!**

**********************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 **

* * *

**Chapter Six: Don't Let Me Down**

* * *

Simon's eyes open blearily to the glare of the rising sun on his retinas. His back is aching, pressed against something hard, and he has a crick in his neck and a chill in his bones. He blinks slowly, habitually taking a moment to sort out his patchy memories of the night before and realising with a jolt that they aren't patchy at all. For the first time in living memory he'd gone to sleep without the effects of chemicals on his brain.

But because he can't quite believe what the uncommonly lucid memories are telling him, he has to check anyway. He feels a weight on his shoulder and looks down, drawing in a sharp breath as he sees the source.

Kieren's head is propped on his shoulder, copper-blonde hair splayed over the fabric of his shirt and lips slightly parted as he takes deep, slumberous breaths through his mouth. Simon sees the familiar leather jacket draped over the sleeping boy's shoulders and suddenly realises why his own body is so cold.

Simon's mouth flops open and closed a few times, and he finds himself completely at a loss for what to do next. Does he just stay perfectly still and wait for Kieren to wake in his own time? Does he nudge him now and hope he doesn't get angry? What happens when he _does _wake up- does he smile and laugh and brush this weirdly intimate situation off as a funny mistake made from sheer exhaustion or does it make him angry, or uncomfortable? Maybe he'll get up, mutter an excuse and walk away, and this time he won't come back.

Deciding that he's probably not going to like the outcome and there's no sense in prolonging the inevitable, Simon loudly clears his throat and shrugs his shoulders ever so slightly. Kieren frowns, his long lashes fluttering as his dark eyes drift slowly open. For a few seconds he stares out at the grass and trees and looks confused- lost, even.

Then his eyes snap fully open and he sits bolt upright, his hands flying up to grab the lapels of Simon's jacket where it hangs over his narrow shoulders. He looks at Simon and his sallow cheeks flush crimson. "Oh, uh, hi," he says awkwardly.

"Hey," Simon replies gruffly, rubbing the back of his head and looking down at the ground.

They sit side by side in silence a moment, and Kieren's eyes narrow. "How long was I asleep?"

Simon shrugs. "Dunno. Most of the night."

"Huh," Kieren says quietly, thoughtfully. "Weird."

"Not used to it?" Simon says, smiling almost fondly at the bewildered expression on the man's face.

Kieren shakes his head slowly. "No, not really," his fingers tighten on the leather and his eyes widen again, "Oh, sorry!" he exclaims, pulling the jacket from his back and handing it over to Simon apologetically. "Here," he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "Hope you didn't get too cold."

"Nah," Simon lies smoothly, shrugging the jacket back on and silently revelling in the added warmth transferred from the other man's body. He can already feel his cold skin starting to warm up.

Kieren shoots him a small smile, and then they're right back to staring ahead and not meeting each other's gaze. Still, Kieren hasn't stood up and walked away yet, so Simon counts it as a win.

But after five minutes of sitting still with barely a movement between them, he decides enough is enough.

"You hungry?" he asks.

Kieren smiles, turning his head to look at him, and it almost feels like they're back on that bridge once again.

"Starving."

* * *

"Mind the tiger lilies, Tiger!" Amy laughs as Philip juggles the various brimming pots of soil and blooms in his overburdened arms.

"Doing the best I can!" Philip assures her, going bug-eyed as he narrowly saves a potted chrysanthemum from falling to the ground. Amy reaches up to help him steady it, chortling at his clumsiness, and their fingers brush lightly. Their giggles trail off, matching blushes and shy smiles as Amy hastily pulls away and straightens out her cardigan self-consciously.

"Thanks for this," Amy says sincerely, wrapping her arms tighter around the bag of seed packs in her arms with a smile. "Nan doesn't 'alf neglect the window boxes, place needs some fresh colour, smooth out the rough edges. Probably best keep the tiger lilies inside the house, though- I've heard they're not good for cats…"

Philip smiles, shrugging his shoulders around his heavy load. "It's no problem. I'm, uh, happy to help."

Amy brushes her hair out of her face, her eyes flickering to the stalls around them, stretching off into the distance. It was Roarton's semi-annual flower show, and vendors had come from towns over to hawk their wares. Amy is grateful for the distraction (and also to Philip for agreeing to do most of the heavy lifting. She's getting shakier by the day, and she doesn't trust her arms to support the delicate cargo). She loves her nan with all her heart, but the woman didn't half watch some terrible television shows.

"Y'know, all of these flowers mean something," she says thoughtfully, pointing at a nearby counter. "Like those geraniums- I heard they stand for stupidity, folly, that sort o' thing."

"Yeah?" Philip says, nodding down at the flowers in his hands. "What do these stand for, then?"

"Well," Amy begins brightly, pointing to each pot in turn. "The chrysanthemum's for optimism- always a good thing to have about the house!- and that snapdragon's for strength, although I've also heard people say it can mean deception… but these things are all relative, aren't they?"

Philip chuckles, and nods to the pot in the centre. "What about that one?"

Amy stares at the yarrow's petal clusters fluttering in the breeze, and a sad smile crosses her face. "Healing."

She looks down at her feet, taking a deep breath as black spots invade her vision again. That's what she gets for walking around all day with no breaks.

She hears a slight scraping and rustling as Philip rearranges the various blooms, freeing his right hand and extending it timidly towards her. With a moment's hesitation and a grateful smile, Amy takes it.

They continue their slow amble through the stands, hands loosely twined and hanging between them, content to walk with not another word to break the silence. She knows it's because he's too shy and awkward to say it, but Amy's glad Philip doesn't bombard her with "it'll be okay"s and "there's always hope"s. He knows as well as she does that it won't. He doesn't try to convince her otherwise, but he seems happy enough to keep her company in the meantime. It's a refreshing change of pace, although Amy can't help feeling slightly guilty at letting him get so close knowing she's more than likely to pop her clogs within the month. It's unfair on him, and she knows it.

Still, she can be selfish when it suits her. And he seems quite happy to let her indulge herself, just this once.

"Hello, Phil."

"Afternoon, Mrs. Walker," Philip greets, and Amy looks up at the drawn face of the woman standing before them, framed by short brown hair in a practical style and a warm scarf up to her chin.

"I don't s'pose you've…" she begins, shrugging her shoulders slightly, but she doesn't sound hopeful.

"No sign of him yet, I'm afraid," Philip says regretfully, his grip on Amy's hand tightening ever so slightly. "But we're still looking."

The woman nods, sad yet unsurprised. "Yes. Of course. Well, thanks anyway," she says quietly. "Take care, Philip- say 'ello to yer mum for me," she says, sending a half-hearted smile their way before moving hastily on.

Amy looks after her, cocking her head to the side. "Was that…?"

Philip nods. "Yeah- Sue Walker, Kieren's mum. "

Amy nods. She can see the resemblance- the boy had his mother's eyes. "She must be worried sick…"

Her heart goes out to the woman with the defeated stoop to her shoulders. Amy is already destined to be outlived by her father and grandmother, and even though she misses her mother with all her heart she is also strangely grateful that she's not around to see her slow decline. No parent wants to hear the news that they've outlasted their own child. So far, her own father hadn't even come to visit. Obviously it was easier to face from a distance…

A flower catches her eye, and she strides confidently over to the stand.

"So, good sir," she asks the man behind the counter as Philip jogs up behind her. "How much for that one?"

* * *

How and why it happened is anyone's guess, but somewhere over the course of the next six days, a routine was born.

Every morning, Kieren would wake up on that same park bench, and Simon would be there too. Sometimes their heads would be touching, sometimes their arms or their legs. In the first few days these oddly close positions had been the source of embarrassment, but sometime around day three they'd grown out of it. If this was how it was going to be, there was really no use in fighting it.

Every morning, Simon would ask if he was hungry, to which Kieren would reply that he was starving (although he occasionally switched it out with words like 'famished' or 'ravenous', just to mix things up). Kieren would hand back the jacket that somehow always found its way onto his shoulders, and they'd go for breakfast at that same diner where they'd first bared their souls over beans on toast. Simon would buy them bacon and eggs (and Kieren realised his stomach must have shrunk, because it was more than enough to last him until the next morning), and when they finished they would part ways on the doorstep until they inevitably found themselves drawn back to the bench by the bridge. What Simon did in the hours in between was anyone's guess- but by the fact that a week had passed and Kieren had not seen a single withdrawal symptom (not that he really knew what any of them looked like, but still), he could pretty much guess. Whatever new things he was cranking into his system, he must have at least been moderating his doses- when he joins Kieren under the setting sun he doesn't seem vague or out of it, he doesn't even seem any happier or angrier than usual. He's just there, a solid, calming presence amongst the hustle and bustle of the rush-hour traffic and the noise of a million voices.

So whatever it is he does, Kieren decides not to ask. He doesn't want to pry, and isn't even sure if he's earned the right to.

But one question does bother him. So one day, on their seventh night together gazing out onto the vast expanse of orange-dappled grass, he voices it.

"Why do you never go home?" he asks quietly, watching the man carefully from the corner of his eye. "At night, I mean?"

Simon glances at him, but then turns his eyes down to his clasped hands on his knees. "Same reason you don't," he mumbles with a shrug. "Don't really have one anymore."

Kieren runs a hand through his grubby copper hair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "It's not that I don't 'ave a home," he says softly, looking down at the ground. "There's just people there I'd rather not…"

He doesn't need to finish. Simon turns his face to him, and grimaces. "Like I said. Same."

Kieren stares at him, and Simon heaves a sigh as he reaches into his pocket. It emerges with a battered phone in his grip, and he holds it out to the fair-haired man. Kieren gingerly reaches out for it, holding it in his hand and staring down at the fractured casing. The screen is dead, cracked and waterlogged, but the message light on the side still flashes green. Kieren looks up at Simon searchingly, his finger tracing the flickering bulb.

"She's been tryin' to contact me for years now," Simon murmurs. "Haven't answered yet."

"Who is it?" Kieren asks gently, his grip tightening on the decrepit phone.

"My mum," he rubs the back of his neck- it's a nervous gesture, Kieren's seen it at least once a day for the last week. "She and my dad… well, it's fair to say they didn't agree on a lot o' things. And most of those things… most of them were about me."

He takes back the phone, staring down at the flashing light as it refracts in his pale blue irises. Kieren can't take his eyes off him.

"Been about eight years since he told me to get lost," he says, covering the light with his thumb. "Told me to pack my things and get out. Mum didn't agree with that, but I guess 'e won in the end. I was nineteen, so I s'pose he figured I could take care of myself. Don't blame 'im, really. He knew I used to sneak money out of his wallet. And he knew what I spent it on."

He scratches at the newest track mark on his arm, further irritating the puckered skin. "Only fair that he'd want me gone," he shrugs. "Gave me a chance to get off 'em and I didn't take it, so I took the second option. Easier than going cold turkey, anyway."

Kieren gulps, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "I'm sorry."

Simons shakes his head. "S'fine."

Kieren's brow furrows, and he nods to the phone and the spot of green light flickering out from beneath his thumb. "So… why does she keep calling you?"

The dark-haired man rolls his eyes, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Never stops. Has this idea in her head that I'm not completely gone. Thinks if she can convince me to come home I can turn things round."

"Is that such an impossible thing?" Kieren says softly.

"A lifetime of experience would suggest so," Simon mutters. He looks up at Kieren's wide eyes and groans quietly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"One thing you should know about me, Kieren," he says, leaning against the backrest and turning his face up to the stars as they start to appear through the heavy city smog. "Is I'm the type of man who'll always let yeh down."

They sit side by side, heads tilted back to observe the dim glow of distant stars. Kieren blinks slowly, allowing the Irish man's words to sink in, and realising with dull certainty that he must believe every syllable. Despite everything, that's what he thinks of himself with not an ounce of doubt.

Kieren's hand moves slowly to his wrist, feeling the soft bandage that binds it like a brace.

It had been their second night together that Simon had turned up and demanded he hold out his hand. Pulling a new roll of bandage and some antiseptic cream from his coat pocket, he'd taken the time to slowly clean and wrap Kieren's self-inflicted wound, disinfecting the angry red scab with the utmost care. Kieren knew it had already been left alone too long and he'd most likely hold the scar forever, but at that moment it hadn't really mattered. For a little while, it felt like every brush of Simon's fingers over his skin wiped the slate clean.

The truth is, even after such a short amount of time, in which they've slept side by side six times and yet not even asked each other's last names, Simon has yet to let him down. And as stupidly naïve and optimistic as it is, Kieren doesn't see that changing any time soon. He knows it just as surely as he knows that he will once again wake up to Simon's cold skin, his jacket having 'miraculously' transferred itself to Kieren's sleeping form.

"I don't believe you," Kieren whispers.

Without another word, he lifts his feet onto the bench and lies down, back pressed against cold wood and eyes to the sky. He feels Simon's incredulous stare on him, but he doesn't pay him any attention. He doesn't know what else there is to say.

After a while he feels Simon's hands on his ankles, gently straightening his legs as he lifts his feet to rest across his lap. His hand lingers, and Kieren knows that he's also looking up at the sky and the feeble glow of the stars through the industrial haze. He wonders if he's ever seen the stars from the countryside, unhindered by the pollution of a million streetlamps. That was one of the few things to be said for Roarton- if nothing else, the view was spectacular.

His eyes flutter closed, his breaths deepen. He has no idea how long this can last, this strange sanctuary he's found with the mysterious man who owes him his life. The day will come when they part after breakfast and Simon does not return to their place by the bridge. But for the next week, or day or hour or however long it takes, Kieren is determined to make the most of every second he doesn't have to be alone.

He feels the jacket settle over his body, a hand lingering just a second longer than necessary on his chest, and he hopes Simon is getting as much from this as he is.

He hopes he doesn't feel so alone anymore.

* * *

**So, what d'you think of the story so far, m'dears? Would love to hear your feedback, it gives me sustenance :3**

**This thing is gonna end up a little longer than I previously thought, which means a pretty dramatic thing is gonna happen a lot earlier than expected- but I wanted to have some relationship stuff after the big dramatic thing, so I think it's worth it!**

**Until next time! X**


	7. Hope

**Here it goes again, babes!**

**I know I normally update on Mondays, but I'm off out tomorrow and might not be online much so I figured I'd just post the update today since it's written already :) A lot of introspective Simon this chapter, hope you like!**

**Enjoy!**

**************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Hope**

* * *

Kieren may be a depressed nervous wreck, but let him lie down for five minutes and the kid could sleep like the dead. Simon envies him.

He traces his thumb across the sleeping man's ankle absentmindedly, his face turned up to the stars. He remembers years ago, before they'd moved to England for his dad's job, those trips they used to take. Pack up the car, start the engine, and just drive and drive until they left the crowded confines of Dublin behind them. He remembers that little B&B in the rolling Irish countryside like the back of his hand. Even then, unpolluted by lights and traffic, he'd gazed up at the stars and seen them for what they were- dimly glowing hunks of burning gas, already long dead by the time their feeble light reached his sceptical eyes.

But a little part of him had always hoped that somewhere out there, in a place he'd never been before, the stars had to be brighter. One day he'd look up at the stars and he'd see them with the eyes of a poet or an artist. One day he'd look up and Van Gogh's _Starry Night _would make sense.

So he'd travelled. He'd been up and down the country, sleeping rough and searching the skies. When he'd amassed the funds for a plane ticket he'd taken off to the States, his mind a whirl of Hollywood romance as he searched high and low for his own pocketful of stardust.

But it took mere weeks to realise there would be no crystallising moment. No artistic awakening, no electric romance. When after a year and a half he'd staggered off the plane and back onto British soil he'd turned out his pockets and found nothing but shrapnel.

So he'd given up. By the time he'd abandoned his dream of finding his purpose across the pond he'd been verging on twenty-three, and the only thing he had to show from his first two decades of life were a collection of track marks, a chain of one night stands and his entire life savings invested in a broken dream. The day he arrived home was the day he stopped planning ahead. No money from part time jobs (or occasionally more dishonest origins) went to anything other than immediate satisfaction. He saw no point in buying a nice house or good clothes because what do you care what the scenery looks like when you're too high to see straight? One night he'd barged back into the old family home, barely listening to his mother's pleas as he ransacked his old room for anything of value. The next day he'd walked away with money in his pocket and his guitar perched in the pawn shop window. He'd never looked back.

For the past four and a half years he'd lived life from shelter to shelter, never settling down and never making friends. He'd kept himself closed off from people around him- sure, occasionally he'd bought himself a bed for the night with sloppy kisses and drunken fucks, but snorting coke off some stoned twenty year-old's back hardly constituted a relationship.

But he'd never really thought about it like that. In all the years he'd been drowning his sorrows in chemicals the human body was never supposed to consume, he'd never really regretted any of it. What was the point in regret if life was meaningless?

He may not have been proud of who he was, but he'd never felt honest-to-God _shame _until seven days ago, when a brown-eyed boy had walked into his life and dragged his body from the icy waters at death's door.

He still has no idea who this man is. He feels like he's learning his life back to front, starting with his near death and working the rest out as he goes along. He has no idea who Kieren is- what makes him tick, what his hopes and dreams are (if he has any left), who his friends are or how he lives his life.

But what he does know is that, for some idiotic reason, Kieren trusts him.

"_I don't believe you."_

Kieren seems to think that he still has a chance. He doesn't think he's too far gone, a lost cause. Oddly optimistic for a suicidal kid.

Simon actually wishes he deserved that faith.

Kieren doesn't know what he is. He's learning about Simon in the exact way Simon's learning about him- back to front. He knows that he's an addict. He knows that he's suicidal, or at least _has_ been. He knows that he's homeless and cynical. He doesn't know why.

Simon doesn't want to have to be the one to tell him that some people are just a lost cause from the day they're born.

The hand on Kieren's ankle is trembling. His system is still in shock- he hasn't been corrupting it in the manner to which it has become accustomed. He keeps himself sustained during the day when he and Kieren part ways. But when you've spent the last three years shooting heroin into your veins, cutting back to Class C's is quite the leap. It takes the edge off, but he still has a deep yearning for something stronger, something to fill his mind and numb the pain.

But Kieren has seen him at his worst once already. He doesn't want him to see it again. Ever.

He looks down at Kieren's sleeping form, and the leather jacket covering his narrow torso. The jacket that was the only thing from his past life he hadn't abandoned or sold- a gift from his father, before he'd given up on him. He could never sell that jacket, could hardly stand to take it off.

But for some reason he doesn't mind Kieren wearing it. It's three sizes too big and stinks of cigarette smoke, but it looks right on him.

He sees his phone poking out of the top pocket, green light still flickering. It's not going to stop for staring at it.

"Kieren?" he whispers. No response. Of course not, he's fast asleep and Simon had barely spoken. Maybe it's a good thing- he's not sure exactly what he wants to say. Maybe he should formulate a sentence first.

"Kieren," he says again louder, ignoring his own advice as he nudges the sleeping boy's foot.

Kieren awakes with a slight snort as his head jerks up. Simon immediately feels bad for waking him- most days he waits for him to wake in his own time. But he feels like if he doesn't speak now he will have lost the nerve by sunrise.

"Is that really what yeh think?" he says quietly, his grip on Kieren's ankle tightening in his anxiety.

Kieren's brow furrows and he blinks blearily in the face of the loaded question. "'Bout what?"

"What you said, when I told you I'd let yeh down," he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh," Kieren mutters, his eyes widening. "_Oh. _Um, well, yes?"

He doesn't sound all that certain. Simon looks at him as he sits up, the jacket over his chest sliding down to his lap. Their eyes meet across the bench. Simon sighs heavily, hand tangling in his greasy hair. He must look a mess. He'd never cared about that before.

"D'you really think…" he begins, cursing under his breath before trying again. "D'you really think people can change?"

Kieren meets his gaze and shrugs. "I dunno. I don't see why not."

Simon stares at him, and wonders if he dares to hope…

"I mean," Kieren says gently, turning his hazy eyes to the star-spangled sky. "Anything can happen, right? A week ago I was alone in a cave, with a knife in my wrist and nowhere to go, and now…" his brow furrows. "Well, okay, I still 'ave nowhere to go, but…"

He glances up at Simon and shrugs, smiling slightly. "Well, I'm not dead and I'm not alone. Gotta count for something, eh?"

Simon can't take his eyes off him, some strange inner strength shining forth from behind his sallow cheeks and shadowed eyes. There was something so extraordinary about this slender boy from the small town in the middle of nowhere. Some kind of impenetrable spirit beneath the doom and gloom, completely at odds with his wiry exterior and the tell-tale scar on his wrist.

"I've done some things I'm not proud of, Kieren," Simon says quietly, averting his eyes from the boy at his side. "Well, lots o' things. Stuff I'll never make up for…" he shakes his head, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward in the way he used to do when he was on the verge of a breakdown. "Maybe…" he screws his eyes shut. "Maybe some people're just lost causes."

It would be so easy to think like that. Get up and leave, get back to his cold, predictable life before this boy had strolled in and scattered it to the winds. Return to being that useless, layabout scumbag with more scars than hair on his head and more sex than sense. Return to his life of hollow pleasures, screaming at the void.

"I don't think so."

Simon looks back at him, and its only as he blinks back moisture in his eyes that he realises he's on the verge of tears.

Kieren watches him carefully. He's cold, shaky and nervous, his eyes are fearful and his body has never looked so breakable. But he meets Simon's gaze unflinchingly, honesty layering every syllable that rolls from his tongue.

"And even if they are…" he grimaces, shrugging as he gathers his hoodie tighter around his narrow chest. "Well, yeh never know 'til you try, right?"

For a moment Simon is assaulted by a new image. An image of himself, healthy and strong. Of his parents, happy and supportive. Of Kieren, bony frame filled out and dark eyes alight. Maybe…

He looks again at the green light, and sighs.

"I 'ave to go back, don't I?" he whispers, reaching out to slide the phone from its pocket and hold it between them.

"S'your choice," Kieren says, voice melancholy as he stares at the flickering phone. "But maybe you should take the chance while you've still got it."

He looks off into the distance, eyes focused on something far, far away. "They won't wait forever."

Simon stares at his face, feeling his wasted heart tug at the sorrow in his eyes. He says it without thinking, without doubting- every word feels right.

"Come with me."

Kieren turns those infinite eyes on him, and Simon thinks he can see something else stirring beneath the apprehension. Hope?

"I don't think I can do this alone," Simon says quietly, grip tightening on the battered phone.

It was a bad idea. Kieren wouldn't hang around forever. He'd go home, or he'd run away, or he'd finish what he started that lonely night in the countryside. The demons in his brain were still there, still going strong, and just as Simon knew that he himself would barely last a week before old habits lured him back into their deadly embrace, he knew that Kieren's monsters would catch up to him once more. Whatever they had now, it couldn't last. They were both too busy falling apart from the inside to keep their outsides intact.

But it felt so good to pretend.

When Kieren nodded, clinging tighter to the worn leather of Simon's jacket, the Irish man felt a fleeting hope that perhaps things really would get better.

Just this once.

* * *

Brightening up Dorothy Dyer's neglected flowerbeds was proving more arduous than expected. Obviously the parched soil had been left alone a little too long.

Of course, a more likely explanation was that her arms were growing so weak that even yanking weeds had become a task of Herculean strength, but Amy refuses to think like that. Plenty of time for dying later when this place looks a little brighter.

As she carefully plants a flowering chrysanthemum in the freshly turned soil, she wonders if she could keep this up. Maybe if she can keep convincing herself that she has too many important things to do, just decide day after day that this is no time for dying, maybe it'd be enough to fight it off. Sheer mind over matter- busy women like herself have no time for something as silly and time-consuming as kicking the bucket. She's going to have to meet her maker at some point, but she's happy to keep pushing the date back as long as possible.

She straightens her back, peeling off her muddy gardening gloves and swiping a hand across her perspiring forehead. She momentarily regrets not taking her Nan up on her offer of help, but she's determined to do this. She needs a constant supply of work to keep her going- if she takes a break she might just expire. Literally. Besides, her Nan was talented in many respects but colour coordination wasn't one of them.

She stretches her stiff neck, wincing as something clicks. She's just chastising her bones for giving in so easily when she catches sight of someone in the street, walking briskly towards the other side of town with a sad frown on her face.

Amy's eyes widen. "'Ey, Mrs. Walker!"

Sue pauses and turns to look at her, confusion evident in her features. "Yes?"

Amy brushes the specks of soil from her dress, stepping down to street level and smiling shyly at the bewildered woman. "Hi, there- saw yeh at the flower show yesterday. I'm Amy!"

A flicker of recognition registers in her face, and Sue nods politely. "Ah, yes- Amy Dyer, is it?"

Amy nods with a smile, trying not to dwell on the flash of pity in Sue's eyes- pretty much the whole town knew about her illness at this point, she shouldn't be surprised that that's the first thing the mind leaps to. "Yep, that's me. I meant to chat to yeh at the show, but yeh moved on pretty quickly…"

"Had a lot to sort out, I'm afraid," Sue says, shrugging slightly. "Family y'know how it is."

Amy nods politely, but she really doesn't- no siblings, no mother and a distant father doesn't make for the fullest family experience. Still, no point in distressing the poor woman further. "That's all right, I just wanted to…" she says, crossing her arms over her chest. The cold rushes right through her, now. "Well, I just wanted to wish yeh luck in finding yer son- it must be awful, not knowing where he's got off to. I'm sure 'e'll be back, but… well, just wanted to say I'm sorry is all."

Sue is maintaining a polite smile, but a shadow has fallen over her eyes. "Well, that's very nice of yeh, love. We're 'oping fer the best."

Amy nods again before she remembers what she really wanted to do. "Oh, I 'ave something for yeh- wait here a second!"

She darts back to the open front door, rummaging through the boxes of seeds and pots in the hall until she finds what she's looking for. She picks up the potted blooms with the utmost care, ignoring the feeble complaints of her weary joints as she springs back to where a bewildered Sue waits on the pavement. She holds the pot out to her, nodding at her to take it.

"What's this fer, love?" Sue asks, taking the pot and looking the slender white flowers up and down.

"Saw it at the show yesterday, thought of yer," Amy explains, shoving her hands in her cardigan pockets. "They're snowdrops. Obviously the meanings of the different flowers kind of depends on who yeh ask, but I've heard they symbolise hope," she shrugs, smiling slightly. "Seemed about right."

Sue's mouth is hanging open slightly, as if the tenderness of the gesture has her completely floored. She composes herself, smiling warmly at Amy and carefully tucking the pot into the crook of her arm. "It's lovely, Amy, thank you."

Amy smiles and nods, offering a little wave as she returns to the window boxes. She doesn't want to keep the poor woman any longer.

"Amy?"

She turns round, cocking her head slightly as Sue addresses her, a small but grateful smile on her face.

"Pop round for a cuppa sometime, yeah?" Sue suggests, nodding down the road. "Yer nan's got our address. Drop in if yer in the neighbourhood, if you like."

Amy feels a slow grin spread across her face, and she gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. "Will do, Mrs. Walker."

* * *

"Fuck," Simon whispers, his hand hovering an inch from the wood.

Kieren is watching him from a few feet away, Simon can feel his eyes on his back. Honestly, he'd feel better if Kieren would just stand a little closer, but he doesn't want to admit that. Besides, he has no idea how his parents are going to react to _his_ presence, let alone that of the strange boy he'd found on the street. (Okay, other way round, but _still._)

He glances back, and the reassuring nod he receives from Kieren is all he needs to take a deep breath and rap his knuckles against the peeling wood, three sharp taps ringing out in the quiet morning hum of the city.

It takes about ten seconds for the door to open- although it could have easily been ten years. A familiar face appears in the gap. A round, careworn face surrounded by a shock of curly black hair. Wide eyes go wider as they settle on him, and the door swings fully open.

He looks down at the shocked face, his hands burrowing deeper into his pockets. He can barely look her in the eye as he gulps down the nervous bile in his throat and speaks.

"Hi, Mum," he murmurs.

He sees someone else appear in the hall behind her- a tall figure, slender but intimidating. He knows that figure well. He braces himself for a shout, or a slap, or anything really. He deserves it.

What he isn't prepared for as his mother steps closer is her arms around his waist, her head pressed against his shoulder as she pulls him in tight.

Warmth creeps through his body from the contact, and after he recovers from the shock he drapes his own arms carefully over her shoulders, pressing his chin to the top of her head and his hands to her back. He can't remember the last time they were this close.

She sobs slightly against his chest.

And more surprisingly, so does he.

They stand together like that for a while, carefully supporting each other, trying to make up for almost ten years of lost contact in the space of a minute. His father stares at them for a moment, but makes no move to stop it happening. As Iain Monroe's shadowy figure disappears back into the house, Simon pulls gently away from his mother's embrace, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders.

Lana Monroe smiles up at him, tears in her blue eyes, hands resting on his face like she's not entirely sure that he's real. She smooths back his hair, like she used to do when he was just a boy on his way to school, hair rough from another sleepless night.

"You going to stay around a while this time, _alanna?_" She asks softly, a hopeful smile on her face.

Simon nods cautiously, but doesn't say a word. He doesn't want to get her hopes up.

Something catches her eye over his shoulder, and she frowns. "Who's this?"

He turns his head, and once again finds himself face to face with Kieren. The fair-haired man is shifting uneasily from foot to foot, fingers fiddling self-consciously with his blood-stained sleeve. He'd talked about taking it off, but Simon had insisted he leave it on- he'd catch his death in the harsh November chill, otherwise. Simon meets his nervous brown eyes and smiles reassuringly, turning back to his mother.

"That's Kieren," he says softly. He leans down, whispering into her ear. "He called the ambulance."

He doesn't need to elaborate, doesn't need to tell her when or where, she's knows what day he's talking about. She stares at the strange, nervous boy in the tattered clothes, glancing between the two of them like she's trying to work something out.

Then she walks past Simon, lightly pushing him towards the door on her way out. She approaches Kieren slowly, as if afraid he might bolt. It's a reasonable assumption- the boy has a wild look in his eyes these days. Simon glances back into the hallway, hoping that his father doesn't come storming out and demanding that they both leave.

Lana reaches out slowly and takes Kieren's wrists, tugging his hands from his pockets and holding them gently in her own. She smiles warmly, and gives him a gentle tug towards the door.

"Come on, laddie," she says warmly, ushering him into the house. "Let's get some food in yeh- you're all skin and bones!"

Simon watches Kieren's face, dazed and relieved as Lana gently ushers him into the shelter of the family home.

Despite his doubts and the ever lingering itch beneath his skin, he feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips.

Maybe Kieren was onto something.

* * *

**There it is! :D**

**The original plan for this fic had these two literally getting together right at the very end, but I've tweaked that a little 'cause I actually wanna write a bit of relationship stuff with them. So don't worry, not long now! I want them to have a couple of chapters together before... stuff.**

**(Oh, and _alanna- _Irish form _a leanbh- _as far as I can work out is a term of endearment meaning 'my child', I'd love to put more things like that in but I'll probably keep it to a minimum as I know fuck all about the Irish language xD)**

***ahem* Anyway, until next time! :D X**

***dissolves into the shadows***


	8. On Your Own

**It's me again!**

**Well, here we are once again- it looks like things may be taking a turn for the worse :/ But don't worry, Siren-ness soon, I promise!**

**A lot of this chapter is about drug withdrawal, so warnings for pain/paranoia/vomit and all that gross stuff. **

**Enjoy!**

******************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

******************************Chapter Eight: On Your Own...**

* * *

Two days ago, Simon had taken his first step over the threshold of his family home in nearly four years. And to his immense surprise, no one had cursed, slapped or kicked him out yet (although he got the feeling his mother was probably holding his dad back from some nasty insults).

Now he is sat at the kitchen table, digging into the hearty breakfast omelette his mum had put before him with a smile. These past couple of days he'd been hungrier than he'd ever thought possible- but he tried to keep his snacking discreet. He didn't want anyone to notice…

His hands are trembling. He bites his lip and puts his fork down, bracing them on the table a moment until the shaking lessens. Fortunately Kieren's attention is on the TV across the room and he doesn't see the action.

Simon picks his fork up again, smiling as Kieren glances at him. The redhead smiles back, taking another enormous bite of toast. The younger man's face was filling out nicely, the sallowness gone from his cheeks, although the shadows under his eyes were impossible to budge. It didn't matter that he was now sleeping nights in a proper bed under warm blankets in the guest room- sometimes Simon still wakes up to hear him crying softly through the wall. So far he hasn't found the courage to go next door and sit with him through his depressions (or night terrors, whichever they are). He doesn't know what he would say, anyway.

So he just smiles at the tired boy every morning, makes conversation about films or books or music (usually music), and tries to pretend he didn't hear anything. Sometimes he sees Kieren glancing at him from the corner of his eye with a little smile, and he thinks in a funny way the boy's grateful to him for not bringing it up.

Something twists in his stomach. Simon puts the fork down again, resting his hands on the table and taking a deep breath as discreetly as possible, glancing up to make sure the younger man isn't watching. He needs a moment.

Two days ago on the 16th of November, he was reunited with his family.

It was also the day he stopped taking drugs of any sort. His body would not let him hear the last of that.

By this point any residual effects from the weed he'd been smoking to tide himself over had worked their way out of his system, and good God he was craving more. But he couldn't. He'd promised himself: no more.

He wants to prove to his father, to himself, to the _God _if he's there, that he _can _change. Wants to prove himself wrong.

He wants to prove his mother and Kieren right.

He takes another deep breath, fighting against the sickness rising in his throat. This is how it always goes. One second he has a raging appetite, devouring so much food that for a moment he can feel full again, full of _something, _even if it's not as strong or satisfying as he'd like. Then suddenly it's gone, and he feels like his entire stomach is clawing its way up his gullet. When this happens he has to just sit still, hope it passes before anyone asks him to move.

"Simon?"

He looks up. Kieren is watching him, his brow furrowed. "Y'alright?"

Simon can't risk opening his mouth, so he just gives a tight smile and a curt nod. Kieren doesn't look convinced, but he turns his attention away. He knows now when he's not going to get a straight answer out of him.

Simon has thought about telling him so many times. It's so tempting- maybe if someone else knew he wouldn't have to fight it all on his own.

But he won't say a word.

He can picture sneers from his father- he would never believe he could see it through. He probably thinks Simon is still injecting himself every night when they're all in bed, riding out his highs in the solitude of his childhood bedroom. He's probably only refrained from raiding his room to find his stash because Lana tells him to leave him be. God, he really doesn't appreciate his mother enough.

No, better to wait till he's past the worst stage, when the siren call of old habits is long out of earshot. This way if (when) he fails in his mission at least no one'll be any the wiser.

He hears voices and looks up to see Kieren smiling, chatting with a tired but amiable expression to Lana as she leans over to pick up his empty plate. She smiles back, patting his shoulder and smoothing down his hair. Those two were getting along like a house on fire- well, Kieren was practically a saint in his mother's eyes for his role in Simon's return, and she was doing everything she could to draw the timid boy out of his shell.

As the sickness fades further into the background and Lana sits down in the seat at Kieren's side, Simon allows himself a small smile.

He won't let them see him like this. Sick, broken, tearing himself apart.

Instead he just holds on to the thought of how they'll look at him when he gets through. The pride on their faces. The ridiculous grin on Kieren's lips when he walks up to them and announces that he's clean, that he walked through the fire and made it to the other side a new man. The shock on his father's face, and the feeling of accomplishment as he finally takes a stand and says _fuck you _to the uncaring universe.

He will get through this.

And in the meantime he'll smile at his mother, eat the food she cooks him, talk to Kieren about all those depressing indie bands he likes, trawl around the music shops with him while they point out their favourite albums to each other knowing full well that they have no money to buy any of them. It doesn't matter, in the end- they may be loitering like the outcast drains on society that they are, but at least they have each other. For now, at least.

A wave of heat rushes through his body. His nails dig into his wrist. He glances at their faces, and is relieved to see they're still smiling. They didn't see.

He's getting through this. And he's getting through it alone.

* * *

Amy pulls her coat tighter around her chest, shivering in the biting cold. She remembers the days when her body was strong and healthy, and a chilly day like this posed not the slightest problem for her hot-blooded, hot-headed nature. She thinks of her body as it is now and thinks she might as well be made of tissue paper, being tossed about in the wintry gusts. She's amazed the wind doesn't just pick her up and carry her out across the sea.

She misses the warmth of the Walker house, the comforting heat of the tea she'd sipped. And boy, did Sue Walker make a good cuppa.

It was worth the cold trek through bleak streets to see that lovely lady's face brighten, even if only a little. Obviously a nice, relaxed cuppa with the neighbours wasn't a luxury the woman had been enjoying recently. She couldn't blame her- she'd be too anxious for tea parties, too, if it was her family falling apart.

From what she'd gathered in exchanges shared over tea and biscuits in the last few days, Kieren's disappearance was only the start of their problems. Poor Steve had been off his food, too sick with worry to even speak half the time. And then there was Jem, poor little Jem- only fourteen, bless her. Sue hadn't the foggiest clue what to do with her. Ever since her big bro's vanishing act she'd been a volatile ball of unbridled rage.

Amy listens to Sue's problems, nods along and offers comfort where needed, but she is plagued by the knowledge that aside from offering company and empty platitudes there's not a bloody thing she can do to help. She can't say anything to drag Steve out of his stupor, she can't reason with a girl who won't even acknowledge her existence, she can't even offer to help in the bloody search efforts since walking along flat ground for five minutes or more feels like scaling the upper slopes of Everest. Bloody Hell, she's useless.

A sound drifts towards her on the breeze. She freezes in her steps, and listens carefully. That almost sounded like…

There it is again. A small, choked sob. Almost inaudible- someone trying to hold their tears in, the slightest noises slipping through the cracks.

Slowly, quietly, Amy walks towards the sound.

She finds herself at a sheltered bus stop, the old glass practically opaque with winter frost. She hears the sound again- it's coming from inside.

She takes a step closer and gently pokes her head around the edge.

Jem Walker sits on the cold metal bench, hands clasped between her shaking knees and shoulders trembling. She's swaddled in a jacket, black leather and at least three sizes too big, and Amy recognises those studs. She's seen a picture in the Walkers' house- that blonde-haired, brown-eyed boy, pulling a deliberately bored expression and wearing a punky jacket that didn't match his personality. Apparently the poor lad was going through a phase.

Amy raises her bony hand and knocks quietly three times on the side of the shelter.

Jem's head shoots up, and she swipes furiously at her eyes. "Wha' d'you want?" she sniffs angrily, her eyeliner smudging across her hand.

Amy watches her carefully, and every angry comment and hair-raising tale from Sue suddenly makes sense. She looks at Jem's dark clothes and thick make-up and derisive sneer, and smiles softly. She knows a defence mechanism when she sees one.

"Wanna talk about it, pal?" she asks, softly but cheerfully.

Jem scowls at her. "No, ta, _pal,_" she imitates sarcastically. But behind the angry expression there's embarrassment and fear at being found out.

"I was just heading home for a cuppa," Amy says, shrugging. "Wondered if you'd care to join me?"

Jem stares at her like she's lost her mind. "Nah, yer alright," she drones, crossing her arms and turning her face away.

Looks like she's going to have to up the ante. "How old're you, again?"

Jem's scowl deepens. "What's it to yeh?"

Amy leans against the barrier, crossing her arms and shrugging. "Just wonderin'. Got some bottles o' cider in the fridge that've just been waiting to be drunk- don't s'pose yer old enough, are yeh?"

The mention of cider had Jem's attention, but her frown remained. "No, s'pose not."

"Then again, I'm not even s'posed to be drinking booze- messes with the medication," Amy ponders out loud. She turns her head slightly to Jem with a mischievous smirk. "But I won't tell if you don't."

Jem stares at her for a long moment.

Then she sighs, standing up and slouching over. "Fine. _One _drink. And if you tell Mum I'll kill yeh."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Amy says, raising her hands in mock surrender as Jem powers past her. She scurries to keep up, and feels a drop of rain land on her nose. "Oops- best get moving, pal!"

"_Stop calling me that!_" Jem complains loudly as Amy unfurls her umbrella.

"Yes, boss!" Amy chirps, holding the umbrella out as more drops begin to fall.

Jem doesn't stop glaring the whole walk back.

Doesn't stop her stepping under the umbrella and sharing the shelter, though.

* * *

Another two days have passed, and with every minute Simon feels himself crumbling.

He spends more and more of his days in his bedroom, locked away from the concerned gazes of his mother and friend. God only knows what they think he's really doing, but all he tells them is that he's tired. He sees the fear on his mother's face- the last time he retreated into himself like this was the first time he discovered the joys of narcotics. He wishes he could tell her not to worry, tell her everything's going to be okay, but he can't get her hopes up. Not yet, not until the worst is over.

The clock counts off the seconds on the table, and in the silence of his room the ticks and tocks ring out like a metronome. Do digital clocks even make sound? Probably not. It's his brain working overtime again. The room is dark, illuminated only by the yellow glow of a streetlamp through the drapes. He can't turn the light on- can't let the others know he's still awake. Besides, even the dim glow of the clock figures sears into his sensitive retinas like the blazing glow of Sauron's Eye. At this point in the withdrawal process he'd happily throw _himself_ into the fires of Mount Doom, to be honest.

Another wave of heat envelopes him and he grits his teeth, hands fisting in the sheets. Making up Lord of the Rings similes isn't going to distract him from this. His skin is prickling in the cold air, feeling like condensation sizzling on a hot surface. He wishes _he_ could evaporate that easily. He wants to throw his blankets off, but he can't- he knows the second he does that his body will be plunged back into icy cold, and he has no desire to fumble around in the dark for discarded sheets.

Something hot courses down his cheek, burning a trail on his already scalding skin. He swipes at it furiously. He won't cry- he doesn't have time for fucking _tears_, of all things. He's a grown man, he's stabbed needles into his arms and been in too many fights to count. He didn't cry when that violent drunk in Birmingham with fists like boulders had dislocated his shoulder in a single hit, he won't cry now.

His stomach roils, his throat burns. He sits bolt upright, snatching up the bucket on the floor at his bedside and holding it in his lap as he bows his head. He knows what comes next.

He wishes the light could have turned on at any other time. He wishes he hadn't been found out just as he was emptying the contents of his stomach. As it is all he can do is screw his eyes shut as he pukes up his guts, hoping that his haggard face is hidden by the edge of the bucket. He doesn't know who is standing in the doorway, but he's happy to put off finding out.

The bed dips slightly. A shaky hand rests on his back, rubbing small circles, another reaches up to push his greasy fringe from his eyes. Too small and gentle for his father, but definitely too big for his mother.

When the rancid flow slows to a halt and he can breathe through his mouth again, he slowly raises his head with the guilty expression of a child who's been caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

Kieren stares back at him, brown eyes wide with concern and mouth set in a frown. Simon looks away again- God, why did it have to be Kieren?

"How long's this been goin' on?" the younger man asks, hand still unconsciously rubbing Simon's back.

"Few days," Simon answers vaguely, hoping against hope that the boy will just drop it and leave. No such luck.

"What's wrong?" Kieren asks quietly, and Simon immediately feels guilty- of course the kid has no idea, probably never had to deal with anything like this his whole life. Simon hesitates a moment- Kieren doesn't know what he's looking at. He could easily make up some bullshit excuse about a virus or food poisoning, ask him to stay away for a few days so he doesn't catch whatever he's got. Simple.

"Stopped using," Simon mutters, surprising himself with the truth. "Haven't had anythin' in five days or so…"

"Had anything…?" Kieren murmurs. His eyes widen, realisation dawns. "_Oh! _Oh, fuck, Simon, why didn't yeh say somethin'?"

Simon averts his eyes and doesn't answer- to be honest, he thinks Kieren probably knows him well enough to work it out. Sure enough, he hears a soft, exasperated sigh from his side as the boy reaches out to take the bucket from his hands. Simon flinches away slightly, certain for a split second that the gentle man is going to lash out, strike him with words or fists. He pushes the thought away- it's the withdrawal talking. Paranoia, that's all. Kieren won't hurt him. Wouldn't hurt a fly.

"Wait here," the redhead orders, standing up with the bucket. "I'm gonna get this cleaned out for yeh."

"Kieren, you don't 'ave to-"

A sharp look from Kieren shuts him right up, he cringes away again for a second before keeping himself in check. "Stay," Kieren reiterates, closing the door behind him as he heads to the bathroom. Simon's relieved to hear that he treads softly and doesn't slam doors- for the moment at least he'll help him keep his secret. It won't last, but it's something.

* * *

He can't breathe- something is wrapped around his chest, tightening its grip, his ribs strain under the pressure. He fights, bites, kicks, but it only worsens.

He jerks awake, his breath shooting out in shallow pants. Another dream. He dreams of pain in his arms and pleasure in his veins. They feel so _real _when he's there, and then he once again awakes to the dark of a room he's long outgrown and what feels like a fist squeezing the air from his lungs.

He looks down at the pillow and finds it stained with blood. Touches his fingers to his face and they come away red- another nosebleed. God, he's sick of these things.

It's cold. Jesus, so fucking cold. He doesn't know if it's the November chill or just his blood running cold, but it's unbearable. He fumbles for his sheets and finds them around his feet, kicked away in a fever. He desperately yanks the sweat-soaked blankets back up, swaddling himself. He shudders and shakes, screwing his eyes shut even though he knows that he's not going to get another wink of sleep tonight.

Something touches his forehead, the lightest pressure on his slick skin. He opens his eyes slightly, and sees a vague silhouette in the gloom. The thing, a slim hand, pulls away, and the figure reaches down beside its chair, stone-cold fear grips Simon as he wonders what it's going to be holding when it returns. Maybe a knife, maybe a needle, maybe a pillow to smother him- who knows?

The next thing to touch his forehead is a cold, wet flannel, and Simon shies away from the contact.

"'S'okay, Simon," a voice murmurs, pressing more insistently with the cold cloth. "Just me."

Kieren. Simon shakes his head slightly against the pillows. He can feel tears forming in his itchy eyes again. "'S'cold. Please, Kier, I'm so…"

"Yer not cold," Kieren says gently, wiping the damp cloth softly across his sweating forehead. "It's the fever, you just think y'are. It'll go in a sec."

Kieren tugs the blankets down a little to a slightly less suffocating position, and Simon doesn't fight even though every instinct screams at him to cling to whatever warmth he can find. Kieren's right, he knows he is. It's all in his head. All in his head…

As his body returns to a slightly more normal temperature, he lets out a deep, rattling sigh. Kieren keeps gently dabbing with the flannel, occasionally dipping it into the bowl for fresh water. Simon flinches every time he does that, and still doesn't know why- Keiren won't hurt him. Definitely not. He wishes his paranoid mind would believe it. In the darkened room, barely a fragile sliver of moonlight peeking through the curtains, Simon is glad that he can't see Kieren's face. He's glad that the younger man can't see his. He never wanted him to see him like this…

His mouth is dry, his tongue is heavy.

_Thank you, _he thinks because his numb mouth won't form the words.

_Thank you…_

_Don't hate me, please…_

_Don't pity me, I don't know what I'd do if you pitied me…_

_I don't want you to see me like this…_

_But thank you for being here…_

_Thank you, thank you, thank you…_

_I love you…_

He stiffens. Kieren's hand pauses momentarily.

"Alright?" he asks gently.

Simon nods minutely, just so Kieren won't turn on the light. He can't see him…

_I love you._

He thinks of those words. He'd never really thought or said them before- well, not sincerely. He thinks of plays and sonnets and songs written about them. He thinks he should be happy.

Instead he holds his breath as cold dread, heavy like a stone, settles deep in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

**Simoooooon? Simon, please don't get all paranoid and screw this up. Pleeeeeease.**

**Anyway, hope that was okay! Feedback always appreciated! I'm afraid we're taking a break from the Amy storyline next chapter- but don't worry, after that she gets a whole chapter to herself!**

**Oh, and remember I mentioned the 'Big Dramatic Thing' that now happens earlier in the fic than previously anticipated?**

**...Yeah, that's next chapter.**

**...Well, until next time! Byeeeeeeeee! X**


	9. Prove Me Wrong

**Well, here it is! The big dramatic chapter- eeeeek!**

**No Amy this chapter I'm afraid- it's a pretty important pivotal moment for Kier and Si so it's all about them. Don't worry, I'll make it up to ya!**

**Anyway, I hope I've done this okay- been getting super paranoid about the writing for this chapter! It's so important, I didn't wanna screw it up by making it over the top or OOC! Hopefully mission accomplished, but do let me know!**

**Well, enjoy!**

**********************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Prove Me Wrong**

* * *

"Simon!" Kieren says, gripping the tormented man's arm for dear life. "Simon, it's okay- yer okay!"

It's no use. His eyes are wild. Every time he looks at Kieren they fill with fear, mistrust. Kieren feels each look cut deep into his soul. Simon just writhes and whimpers, there's no reasoning with him, no way to calm him down, and the roar of the storm outside the window does nothing to help.

Kieren wants so much to just curl up in a corner and cry. He's out of his depth. He's completely fucking useless to Simon in a situation like this- what the _fuck_ was he supposed to _do_? He bites his lip and holds on, hoping that maybe if he can stay a firm, steady presence it may provide some kind of anchor for the struggling man to hold onto.

He thought long and hard before calling out for Mrs. Monroe- he knew that Simon had wanted to keep it a secret, but there's nothing else to be done. Kieren can't do this alone- he hasn't a fucking clue what can even be done.

When Lana appears in the doorway there is panic etched on her face from the urgency of Kieren's call. When she sees her son, tossing and turning like he's being burned at the stake, she drops to her knees at his side and cradles his face with her hands, murmuring soothing phrases in Irish that Kieren can't even begin to understand. But nothing breaks through- he's too far gone. Kieren's too scared to even close the door, and before long he feels Iain Monroe at his back.

"Feckin' Christ, what's 'e taken?" the man growls, angry but fearful.

"Nothin'," Kieren insists, shaking his head as tears begin to well up in his tired eyes. "He's clean, goin' cold turkey- it's been five days so far."

That silences Iain. But frankly Kieren couldn't give two shits about him right now- he's too concerned with the way Simon's eyes keep rolling back in his head to care about his father's feelings.

"Simon," Kieren whispers, reaching a shaky hand out towards the tortured man's cheek. "Si…"

The second his fingers make contact Simon's fluttering eyelids fly open. He smacks his hand away forcefully, stinging his fingertips, and sits bolt upright as his tangled sheets fall around him. Kieren is too shocked to react as he scrambles out of bed, bare feet stumbling over the floorboards gracelessly. He shoves past Iain and runs to the stairs, and Kieren is up after him in a heartbeat.

"Simon!" he shouts desperately, reaching the bottom of the stairs just as Simon yanks the front door open. "Simon, don't-!"

It's too late. Simon doesn't glance back, doesn't speak, doesn't even stop to slip on some shoes or throw on a jacket before he runs out into the deluge. Kieren trips to a halt just shy of the threshold, searching frantically for a retreating figure and finding only icy rain as far as the eye can see.

Lana Monroe is at his side, tears streaming down her face. Kieren can't even look at her or offer any sort of reassurance- all he can do is stare out at the place where Simon should be. She attempts to run out into the rain after him, but something holds her back. Kieren glances round to see Iain, expression stormy as he holds tightly to Lana's arm.

"Leave 'im," he says, and if there's any regret in his voice it's obscured by disappointment.

Kieren stares at him, feeling anger boiling in his blood. "He's yer s_on!_"

Iain glares at him, like he had since the day he'd first walked in. He was just his son's adopted stray, after all. "He's made his choice. Lana, come back inside-"

"Yeah, he has," Kieren yells. "He made a choice to get better- least yeh could do is show some fucking support!"

"Don't yeh talk to me like that," Iain spits, pushing Lana back a bit further and prodding Kieren's chest with his finger. "You're lucky I even let you in here, yeh ungrateful bastard! You'd be dead on a park bench if Simon hadn't dragged yeh back here like a mongrel cat off the street!"

"And _he's_ gonna be dead on a bench if we don't go out and get 'im!" Kieren shouts, smacking his hand away. "He can't do this alone, he needs help- yer s'posed to be his _family!_"

"He was never gonna do this, with or without our help!" Iain bellows. "You don't know 'im- you think yeh do just 'cause you've been bunking up with 'im for a couple o' weeks, eh? He's never seen anything through in his life, this was never gonna be any different!"

Kieren wants to scream, shout, maybe punch Iain in his lousy face. But he stands his ground, taking sharp breaths through his nose as he grits his teeth. The man is looking down at him with something in between pity and contempt.

"Thought you were the exception to the rule, did yeh?" he sneers. "Thought you were special?"

He knows he shouldn't listen to him- he's angry, bitter, lashing out in any way possible. But all the same Kieren feels like caving in on himself.

"Come on, then- what'd he say to you to get yeh to stick around?" Iain prodded. "Has a talent for leading boys on, doesn't he, Lana? Knows how to get what 'e wants."

Kieren is trying harder than he's ever tried in his life not to cry. Lana is watching him sadly, pityingly from behind Iain, the tears still quietly flowing down her cheeks, although her sobs have stopped. She's too used to it- maybe every time Simon runs away a little more of her gives up. Maybe she won't even call him this time. He knows Iain won't.

Suddenly he doesn't want to cry anymore. Instead he straightens his back, meeting Iain's gaze resolutely as he reaches out to the coat rack beside him and takes a hold of Simon's worn leather jacket.

Then he turns around, holds the jacket over his head, and dashes out into the rain.

* * *

Nineteen hours. Nineteen little hours since he'd first found those three little words.

Who knew so much could go wrong in just nineteen hours?

Every second has been gruelling- he fluctuates between hot and cold too fast to even know which one is the reality anymore, every time he throws up Kieren removes the bucket from his sight as quickly as possible so he doesn't see the blood and chunks and go into another panic attack.

Kieren.

_I love you._

God, how he wishes those words could be a source of joy. Instead they just fill him with… something. He doesn't even know- fear? Anger? Distrust? He can't even tell how much is the withdrawal paranoia and how much are genuine concerns anymore. Every time he catches the redhead's eye across the room he's assaulted by a combination of elation and bitterness. Every time the younger man reaches out a hand to touch him he feels like his skin will burn him like hot candlewax, his words will gut him like knife.

_It's all in your head…_

But he doesn't know what's in his head anymore. Where is the line? Is there a line, anymore?

He had to get out. Get away. He can't do it anymore- this torture, feeling his mind slip away with what remains of his body. Everyone hits their tipping point with withdrawal- the moment where they sink or swim, the point of no going back, and his is approaching like a freight train. So he runs away from it as best he can, perhaps he'll never stop running.

Maybe he can just forget this ever happened.

Maybe he can forget _Kieren_ ever happened.

He knows where he is before he even really gets there. His hands fall forward, grip the carved stone balustrade with every ounce of his failing strength. His feet hurt, he knows they must be bleeding- he must have trodden on more glass and sharp rocks than he could count. He couldn't give a shit. He's soaked through, rain, sweat and tears chilling him to the bone.

The sight of rushing water, vast and black in the glow of the streetlamp, greets him as his head flops forward. This was how he'd first found Kieren- battered, bloody, gazing down into the depths like they were calling to him.

A choking sob escapes his throat, his fingers tighten on the rough stone.

For the first time in years, his head is clear. He'd forgotten just how terrifyingly _empty_ it felt. He feels hollowed out as the cold wind whistles right through him, he could just let it carry him away. Everything is so dark, and vast, and so terrifyingly unpredictable. Nothing makes sense. The real world is so full of things that are sharp, and cold and ruthless. And in the end all the pain is all for nothing- because really, what point is there to it all? What the hell is it going to matter what he does with his life when soon enough he'll be nothing but dust in the wind?

This was how he'd lived most of his life. But it had never hurt this much before.

Because now he wants it to be wrong.

He wants to have more meaning than that. He wants there to be some kind of reward, some kind of purpose, because the entire world isn't cold and heartless anymore.

He hadn't known the kind of people existed that could make him _wish_ he was wrong.

The thought of people like Kieren, honest and kind and true, crumbling thanklessly to dust along with the rest of the world fills him with a new level of despair he'd never known existed. He curses the universe for being so cruel just as he curses Kieren for being so kind. Things were so much easier when he could lump every human being into the same box- cold, pointless, self-centred bastards. Fucking Hell, what right has this damn kid to come swanning along and unbalancing his entire world view? He's ruined him.

Because how can he return to what he was now that he knows what he could have been?

It had always been so easy before- life's a bitch, the world's a bitch, might as well join in. But how can he ever live his life that way again knowing what he's missing?

He can't exist without the drugs, numbing his mind to the chilling realities.

But he can't live with them anymore, either.

_What am I?_

He turns his face to the sky, the stars invisible behind grey clouds as far as the eye can see. Finally, the sky matches up to his mood. At least those stupid stars aren't even pretending to be important tonight- last thing he needs is another existential crisis about gaseous explosions on the other side of the galaxy.

He looks back down to the water, running fast and thick with the torrential rain feeding the flow. His hand slips on the slick stone, and his bloody feet complain. He wonders if he even has the strength to climb this fucking wall- is anything really worth the effort, anymore? It's certainly tempting. Who has time for a crisis of faith when you're being swept away and dashed against the shore?

"I wouldn't if I were you."

His laboured breathing stutters to a halt. He turns his head minutely, enough to look to the voice from the corner of his eye. He has to squint through the rain.

Kieren's hands hang limply at his sides, Simon's jacket hanging from one. He makes no effort to pull it over his head as the rain soaks his copper hair.

"It's really fuckin' cold," he says.

* * *

"Go away, Kieren."

"Nah," Kieren says, as light-heartedly as he can manage- but frankly Simon's too close to the edge of the bridge for his liking. "Thought I ought'a come after you before yeh do something really, _really _stupid."

Simon doesn't answer, turning his face back to the water. Taking a deep breath, Kieren takes the smallest step closer.

"Simon," he says softly, and God he wishes Simon would just turn around so he could look in his eyes and see how sincere he is. "Simon, what can I do?"

He expects a shrug, or a grunt or maybe even another shout at him to fuck off.

What he isn't expecting is a bark of laughter, sharp and humourless as Simon turns to face him.

"Why're you like this?" Simon asks, shaking his head.

Kieren frowns. "Simon, I don't-"

"Of course you don't," Simon's fists clench at his sides. "Never understand, do yeh? Don't fucking understand what you're _doing _to me!"

His breaths are coming sharp and fast, his bloodied feet shuffling on the sodden tarmac. Kieren wants to be hurt at the anger in his voice, wants to raise his own and stand up for himself- frankly he's had enough of being belittled by angry Irish men tonight. But he holds his tongue, bites his lip and listens because he gets the feeling that the best way of getting the frantic man away from the water's edge is to let him rant.

"I was so _close_- another hour and I could have been dead, and this whole fucking thing could've just been over and done with," he rages, he doesn't even move to push his limp hair from his face. "But you just had to come along, didn't yeh? Drag me back into it all- and then you had to fuckin' hang around, bein' like y'are… I've never felt so feckin' worthless, and let me tell yeh that's sayin' something!"

"Simon…" Kieren says, eyes wide, but the man isn't done yet. Not by a long shot.

"I've hated a lot of stuff before, Kieren," he says, one hand gripping the stone wall at his side for balance. "I've hated the world, I've hated people, hated this big fuckin' rip-off called life…" he shakes his head, his eyes close momentarily. "But I never hated _myself _'til you came along. Not sayin' I _liked _myself, either, but I always figured at least it wasn't my fault…"

Kieren's glad of the rain pouring down his face- he doesn't want Simon to see the way tears spring forth from his eyes. His hand tangles in the loose end of the bandage on his wrist, kept on by force of habit even long after the wound has healed. Has he been misreading Simon this whole time? Is this how he's felt every moment they've been together, silently resenting Kieren for everything he's done? Everything he represents?

"I never wanted…" he begins, choking slightly. "Simon, I never wanted you to-"

"I know," Simon mutters, looking back at Kieren over his shoulder. "I know you didn't. S'not your fault, you wouldn't hurt anyone, would yeh? Not deliberately, not for no reason. You didn't know what y'were getting into when you dragged me out of that ditch- bet you thought yeh were just helping me out," he almost smiles. "Y'know, for a suicidal pessimist you're pretty optimistic."

"Isn't it better to be optimistic?" Kieren asks softly, although he's not entirely sure he believes it himself. "See the best in people?"

Simon turns on him again." There yeh go again!" he says angrily, slamming his fist on the stone. "Talkin' to me like that, bein' all sweet and innocent and so goddamn feckin' _helpful! _Where the _fuck _does that come from?!"

Kieren takes a step back, fingers worrying the bandage. This isn't Simon. His Simon never shouts like this, never loses his temper so suddenly and so violently. That's what Rick used to do- smacking his fists against walls every time it got too much, every time his guilt at what they were doing overwhelmed him. Simon doesn't do this. Kieren's fingers tighten on the leather jacket, reminding himself with a small, quick mantra of _it's only the withdrawal _to keep himself quiet as Simon rages.

"Don't yeh see what you're doin' to me, Kieren?" he says, and Kieren sees a thin line of blood trickle from his fist, clenched so tight his nails dig into his palm. "Jesus, everything was so _simple _before yeh found me- now you're around it's like I've been looking at the world wrong…"

Kieren resists the urge to point out that that's probably because he's looking at it sober for once. It doesn't seem appropriate when Simon is laying his heart open right before him.

"It wasn't a good life before you came along," he mutters, hand moving up to scratch the back of his head- Kieren was grateful for the nervous gesture, reassuringly familiar against the rage. "Hell, I wouldn't even say it was an alright life, but it was somethin'. I was surviving, and that was it- that was enough! I thought that's all there feckin' was- eat, sleep, survive, die. I was cold, and I was alone and selfish and useless, but so was everyone else so who the fuck even cares? What the fuck did I have to believe in?"

He takes a deep, shuddering breath inwards. "But now you're here I _want _to believe. In something at least," he laughs coldly, grimly. "I want to believe you'll get better, I wanna believe you won't try to off yourself again, and you'll find your family and start your life. And I wanna believe you won't leave me behind when yeh do…"

Kieren thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe. He doesn't know when he raised the jacket from his side to hug it to his chest but it's there now, warm and heavy against his rain-soaked shirt, over his icy heart- the ice that's been thawing a little day by day, delicate fissures spider-webbing the surface every time Simon gives him that wry little smile of his.

"Just had to be fuckin' you, didn't it?" Simon says, quietly but angrily as his hands tremble on the stone and he leans with his head over the wall. "Never used to get my hopes up like this- what would be the point?"

Kieren clutches the jacket tighter, blinking against the rain in his eyes.

"But yeh had to be there," Simon says, so quietly it's almost lost to the rushing water, like he doesn't even want Kieren to hear. "Just bein' you. Had to make me _care…" _he shakes his head, and Kieren wonders if he can even hear the rain through the noise in his own mind.

"Just had to make me love you, didn't yeh?"

It's almost like the world stops. He doesn't see or hear or feel the rain anymore. He just stares at Simon, really sees him, possibly for the first time. Sees his pale, bruised arms shining under the sheen of water. Sees his baggy _Ramones _t-shirt, soaked through along with the ratty jeans he wears as pyjamas. Sees his feet, bare and bloodied on the cold ground.

"'Course yeh did," Simon murmurs, and even from behind Kieren can tell his eyes are closed.

Kieren looks down at the ground, feeling like it could just crumble beneath his feet. He thinks of that word, that little L-word that he hadn't even heard _once_ from Rick the whole time they'd known each other. It hadn't mattered- they'd felt it, they'd known it, that was all they needed. It had been enough- until one day it hadn't been. He'd wanted more. Maybe he pushed Rick too hard, maybe Rick never felt the way he did, who knew? The point was that neither of them had got what they wanted. Love was full of disappointments, full of pain and heartbreak. He'd learned that the hard way. He thinks a part of him had thought that by running away he could leave it all. Live a new life, no love, no pain. Simon says the word like it's obvious, like it isn't even a surprise. It's there, hanging heavily between them. Frankly it's terrifying- Kieren wants to run away, hide in a hole and never crawl out.

Nothing can come from love but more pain.

"Simon," he says quietly, taking a step closer.

But God, is it easy to get hooked on a certain kind of heartache.

"All these things- hope, belief…" he gulps, his throat suddenly feels so dry. "…love. Maybe they don't have to be so scary? Maybe they can be good- great, even. But you have to give them a chance."

Simon is staring at him, and with every step closer Kieren feels his confidence build. "There's nothing to stop you making them happen. They're there for the taking…" he meets Simon's gaze, blue eyes meeting brown through the veil of icy rain. "But sometimes yeh just have to take the first step yourself."

Simon stares back at him, his expression bitter- but the slightest glimmer of hope in his pale eyes has Kieren taking another step closer. "And then what?" he says, and the fear in his voice is heart wrenching.

Kieren shrugs. "Then you buckle up and hope for the best."

Simon snorts derisively. "Really? That's it? That's your sage advice, 'hope for the best'?"

"It's a start, isn't it?" Kieren says, taking another step closer. "That's what I did when I got on that stupid train."

"And how did that work out for yeh?" Simon says with a roll of his eyes. "Standing in the rain talking a suicidal drug addict down from a bridge- yeah, fantastic deal you've got for yourself, there."

"Suicidal _ex-_addict," Kieren corrects, mostly just to be irritating. "And yeah, it is. If yer must know, it's the first time I've felt fucking useful in years."

"I'm not an ex-addict yet, Kier," Simon mutters. "Not by a long shot. I'm gonna be a shuddering mess for weeks, maybe months. S'not the kind of thing that just _goes_ overnight."

"Well, guess I'm just going to have to stick around then, aren't I?"

Simon regards him with chipped-ice eyes, and he can see the cynicism as they bore into him. "People let you down, Kieren," he says, his grip tightening on the stone. "And that applies to everyone- you and I included. And if _you_ don't run away or off yourself or otherwise disappear, then it's gonna be me."

"People also have a habit of surprising you," Kieren says, and right now he believes every fucking word. He slowly stretches out his arm, spreading it out palm-up, still just over arm's length from where Simon leans against the stone.

"Please, Simon," he whispers, and it feels like laying his heart open all over again- like being fourteen and standing on the Macy's doorstep with a stoop to his shoulders and a mix CD in his trembling hands. "Please, give me a chance to prove yeh wrong."

Simon stares at him, and Kieren can't even count all the different emotions that cross his gaze.

But he turns around. Lifts his bloody foot, takes the first step, hand reaching out clumsily through the rain to his own. Their skin touches, both of them chilled to the bone, their pulses racing beneath their clammy skin. As Kieren tugs Simon closer, feeling the man's hesitation in his trembling hand and nervous steps, he smiles and raises the jacket in his hand.

"Come on," he says softly, draping it over his own head and holding it open for Simon to step under. "Let's go home."

* * *

Nearly two hours have passed, and Lana hasn't moved once from her silent vigil by the window. Iain had gone to bed, grumbling at her for wasting her time- Simon wasn't coming back. She wants to shout at him, but she knows it would be no use. Iain Monroe has a very specific way of dealing with pain, and that method is to get angry and cut himself off from the source. She doesn't agree with it, never has, but it's who he is.

Still, at this point even she's starting to grow doubtful. As the rain continues to pour and the street remains still save for a stray cat darting for cover, she starts to worry that maybe this really is it. Maybe her Simon isn't coming back this time. And if he doesn't return she knows Kieren won't- the boy will follow her son, no doubt about it. He's too concerned for his safety to let him go alone. Her heart swells with gratitude for the strange, half-starved boy she'd met on her doorstep that day- he was taking care of her Simon when she couldn't. It was more than she could have ever hoped for.

She sighs heavily, standing up and turning off the lamp. She'll stay awake- how could she sleep on a night like this?- but she doubts that either of them will be back tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if she's lucky. She only hopes they've found shelter somewhere out of the rain. Simon was barely clothed when he'd ran out, he'd freeze before too long if they didn't find somewhere to hide from the storm.

As the light goes off she takes one last, longing glance out the window.

Her breath catches.

She sees something, a figure stumbling through the gloom. It's only when it gets closer that she realises it isn't one figure but two, huddled under one coat. They grow closer still, and her heart leaps into her mouth as she recognises their faces.

She runs to the door, throwing it open as they approach and holding her hand out to them. Another hand, thin and cold, reaches out to take it. Kieren smiles weakly at her from beneath the heavy leather jacket, shivering slightly under his sodden clothes.

She shuts the door behind them, and Kieren removes the jacket from their shuddering shoulders gently. Simon's face is drawn, his feet are bruised and bloody and his skin is prickling with goose bumps. Kieren doesn't look much better, but he holds off on tending to himself to race to the bathroom and grab towels to dry off Simon's freezing skin. Lana takes one of them, reaching up to dry Simon's soaked hair as best she can- he can't go to bed with it like that, he'll freeze even more than he already has.

Between the two of them they get Simon upstairs, and it's just as well- his forehead is once again hot to the touch, his fever returning. The worst is far from over.

They do what they can; dry him off, dress him in dry clothes, tend to the scrapes and cuts in his feet as much as possible without having antibiotics to hand. In the end there's not much else to do besides let him try and get some sleep.

He's lying curled up on his bed, eyes screwed shut in a state of restless slumber, when Kieren finally goes to change into dry clothes himself. He emerges from the guest room again a moment later, dressed in clothes that used to belong to Simon before he'd left home, and smiles uneasily at Lana where she leans in Simon's doorway.

"I'd better stay with 'im tonight," he explains shyly, shifting his feet. "'Case it gets worse."

Lana stares at him, looking so small bundled in her son's old clothes, and smiles. He smiles back and nods as he brushes past her into the room.

Or at least he tries to, but she stops him with a hand on his arm. He turns to her questioningly, and without another word she wraps her arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a warm embrace. He stands frozen for a second before he returns the hug, arms around her waist as she presses her face to his shoulder.

Lana Monroe was never too good with words. It was her husband who read them poetry, who studied literature and could find a word for every situation (assuming he didn't find said situation to be too painful to acknowledge). What he expressed with words, she expressed with actions. There were no words to tell Kieren how grateful she was for saving her son's life so many times, for being there when she couldn't be, for bringing him back to them.

So she just holds on tightly to her son's guardian angel, pouring a thousand words into a single embrace, knowing it will never be enough.

* * *

**Ta-dah! Keith do good? :3**

**Guess who gets a chapter all to herself next time? Why, it's the beautiful genius herself! (Which does sadly mean we're taking a break from these guys, but don't worry! The boys will be back in town another chapter from now, possibly along with kissing/fluff/angst/super light almost-smut, LET THE SIREN BEGIN!)**

**Also I'm gonna try keeping up this every-week-on-a-Monday update trend I've got going, but I'm officially all out of pre-drafted chapters now so I really am writing them from scratch, so if there ever is an update delay you know why!**

**Until next time! X**


	10. What Could Have Been

**Hello, hello! **

**Couple of announcements: **

**One) This fic is now going to be 20 chapters long, I was looking at my plan for the final chapter and realised it was gonna be a fucking BEHEMOTH so I decided to pace myself a bit (which also gives me more chances to write Siren-ish moments, so yay! There's gonna be a whole extra chapter of Siren fluff because of my decision, so I think it's a good one :3)**

**Two) I did my best with this chapter, but I am still completely unhappy with it. Basically I think I've spent so long writing Simon and Kieren that I've completely forgotten how to write Amy xD And I find writing Phil even trickier! So basically I apologise if this chapter ain't quite up to snuff- but hey, chapter ten, guess that brings us to the new half-way point in the fic! What a long, crazy journey we've had! I feel like celebrating, which brings us onto announcement-**

**Three) I'm determined to make it up to you for A) the shortness of this chapter B) the lack of Simon/Kieren in this chapter and C) the all around maybe-not-quite-as-good-as-other-chapters of this chapter, so guess what? Next week you get a massive chapter of PURE, UNADULTERATED SIREN! Sound good? No, sounds great! Gettin' to the good stuff now, folks!**

**Enjoy! :D**

**********************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

**Chapter Ten: What Could Have Been...**

* * *

Amy practically dances through the door of the bungalow, humming cheerily as she twirls along with the cuddly lion swinging from her hands.

"_I ought'a get him a friend!" she chirped, playfully bouncing the toy around like it was dancing. "A little leopard, or a panther or something!"_

"_Get yeh a tiger next time," Philip smiled, taking her free hand. "Promise."_

She giggles, cuddling the lion to her chest. God, she's exhausted, but just this once it was well worth it. She'd spent the whole day with Philip, going on rides and eating all the sinfully delicious carnival food she could find- she'd even seen Jem at one point, and actually received a smile and a wave before she'd disappeared into the crowd with her friend. It may not be much, but it was definitely a start- the girl was getting a little less snippy with her every day! It had been years since she'd had this much fun, the last recorded case was probably sometime before she was diagnosed. The fun had stopped pretty quickly after that delightful afternoon.

"Amy?"

Amy rounds the corner to find her Nan in the living room, sitting bolt upright on one of the armchairs with her hands worrying a silk handkerchief between them. She stands, reaching for the parasol that she practically uses as a cane these days.

"Amy, where've you been?" Dorothy demands, hobbling towards her with her mouth set in a stern line. "You've been gone all day."

"Day trip," Amy says brightly, cuddling the lion closer. "With Philip- he took me to the funfair, won me a little mate and everything!" she grabs one of the little cat's paws, waving it at her Nan playfully.

Dorothy doesn't seem amused. "Sounds lovely, dear, but you shouldn't be staying out so long," she chastises. "And every day, too! You shouldn't be overstraining yourself like this in your condition."

"I can take care of meself, Nan!" Amy complains, her arms dropping to her sides as the lion dangles from her grasp. "And Philly takes perfectly good care of me, too-"

"I just think you shouldn't be pushing yourself," Dorothy insists firmly.

"I can handle it-!"

"You'll only make things worse if you keep-"

"_How _could it get worse, Nan?" Amy demands.

Dorothy is taken aback by the outburst, but continues on calmly. "I'm just saying you're at a delicate stage, you shouldn't be pushing your luck."

"Do you really think I have any luck left to push?" Amy asks bitterly, crossing her arms. "I'm gonna be dead soon, anyway, might as well try and have some bloody fun before I bite the dust."

"Amy…"

"Nan, I can't just sit around and do _nothing_," Amy exclaims, louder than she intended. "I've done enough of that as it is! That's _all _I've done- if I'm gonna die soon I might as well try and _live _for once!"

She feels something warm on her cheek and reaches up to wipe it away, feels moisture on her fingertips. So much for her good mood.

Dorothy is looking back at her, tired brown eyes shining with sadness.

"I'm sorry, Amy," she says softly, handing her granddaughter the handkerchief to wipe her eyes. "You really do deserve better than this…" her carefully composed face looks in danger of cracking. "You're special. Always have been…"

Amy bunches the handkerchief uselessly in her hand as the tears flow. The dam is broken, all the anger and floods she'd bottled up finally breaking free. So quick, and so abrupt- to think her weeks of hard work keeping the fear bottled up could be undone with just a few choice phrases. Suddenly it's like her face is being submerged in freezing water, and she's gasping for breath through aching lungs but finding only ice to fill the space.

"It's not fair," she chokes.

And then, because the air is suddenly too thin in that old hallway, she runs out the front door, the handkerchief and stuffed lion falling to the floor behind her. She doesn't look back.

* * *

Philip is too busy lying back on his bed and smiling giddily to pay much mind to the knock on the front door. He probably would have ignored it completely in favour of reliving his entire day with Amy in his head if it weren't for his mum calling him down. Reluctantly, he drags himself to his feet and descends the stairs, humming all the way.

His immediate reaction when he sees Amy hovering on the doorstep is to grin like a maniac.

His face falls when he gets closer and sees her eyes red-rimmed, the heavy layer of make-up over her sallow face smudged. She sniffles, wiping her nose unceremoniously on her cardigan sleeve and offering him a weak smile.

"Evenin', Tiger," she greets him quietly.

"Amy?" he asks anxiously, crossing over to her quickly just as Shirley excuses herself and disappears to the kitchen, giving them a long look over her shoulder as she goes. Philip takes Amy's thin hands in his own, and feels them shaking. "Amy, what's wrong?"

She sniffs and shrugs, looking down at their twined fingers. "Where do I even start?"

Philip gulps- he's never been very good with advice, or comfort. He's never been very good with people and their emotions in general, to be honest.

But it's Amy.

"Come on," Philip says gently, tugging her over the threshold and shutting the door behind her. "You head upstairs- I'll get you a cuppa."

* * *

"It's just so _unfair!_"

She's crying again, pulling tissues from the box at her side and frantically dabbing at the tears that flow down her cheeks. Philip sits awkwardly at the other end of the bed, holding onto her rapidly cooling cup of tea while she sobs. Honestly, he has no idea what else he can do- it's a complete shock, seeing her like this. Usually she's so strong, so full of life even when it must feel like the whole world's out to get her. It feels wrong, seeing her vulnerable like this.

"It's just…" she chokes, running a hand through her wild hair. "There's still so much left for me to _do_, and now I'm never gonna do it because someone decided; 'Oh, look at that lovely girl with loads of friends and a plan for the future, let's give her a nice hefty dose of_ incurable cancer!'_"

Apparently everyone has a breaking point.

"I was gonna go to Paris," she sniffs, taking the steaming mug from him and holding it against her chest with shaking hands. "Experience the bohemian lifestyle for a bit, be some moregeous artist's muse, then I was gonna go everywhere else- Venice, New York, Berlin. Spent so bloody long in teeny villages and tedious schools, I was gonna get as far away from it as I could…"

Philip doesn't know what to say- what can he possibly say to make her feel better? He's had no practise at this, no prior experience. She's never brought it up before. Whenever they were together she just talked about anything and everything else, as if the illness would go away if she didn't give it the time of day. Endless denial. Obviously that's no longer an option.

"Big adventures, whirlwind romances, all those things yeh read about in books," she laughs sadly, shaking her head. "I was gonna do _everything!_ I'm now I'm just 'ere, and I'm stuck and I'm doomed, s'like I haven't even played the game yet and I've already been fuckin' _benched!_"

She sniffles again, clutching tighter to the mug in her hands as the shaking subsides. "Sorry…" she whispers, her hair falling over her face as she bows her head.

"For what?" Philip asks, confused.

She looks up at him, wide brown eyes devoid of her usual cheeriness. "Draggin' yeh in," she says quietly, sipping her tea despite the scalding temperature.

"Amy, I don't-"

"Shouldn't have got yeh involved," Amy mumbles guiltily, looking down into her tea like she wishes she could drown in it. "S'not yer fault. I've been leading you on."

His brow furrows, he reaches out for her hand but it remains firmly clasped around the mug. "What d'you mean?"

"I've been doomed from the start, Philip," she says, so quietly it almost slips right by him. "I knew whatever happened with us wasn't gonna last, and I knew I'd just end up popping me clogs and leaving yeh all sad and abandoned," she shrugs gloomily. "Should've never sat down at that bloody picnic with you. S'pose I just didn't care enough to let yeh go."

"Don't say that," Philip says, eyes wide as he shakes his head.

"S'true," Amy says flatly. "I can be pretty selfish when the mood takes me."

"Amy," Philip says softly, gently prising one of her trembling hands away from the steaming cup and holding it carefully in his own. "You're not selfish. Yer about as far from selfish as it's possible to be."

"What d'you mean?" she asks, bewildered.

"Well, like you said, you don't have much time left," he says, silently wishing that saying the words might make them lose their power. "You could 'ave done anything you wanted- gone away on a last holiday, hidden away from people and watched telly, no one would've blamed you, but you didn't."

Her eyes are fixed on him now. He gulps and continues. _Words, don't fail me now._

"You came here. You stayed with your gran and helped her sort out the house, you made friends with the Walkers- I saw Jem the other day, she was the 'appiest I've seen her since her brother vanished. Nothing you do is selfish, you don't even put some of your prettiest flowers on display 'cause you know they're poisonous to cats, and you don't want some poor stray to come along and get ill from them. And as for me…"

"Yeah?" she breathes, he feels her grip on his hand tighten.

He shrugs, looking down at their joined hands as he rubs his thumb along the back of hers. "I know you feel bad about getting me involved," he murmurs. "But you shouldn't. I wanted to be. I knew what was going on with you when we first met- everyone in town did. S'pose gossip travels fast. But I wouldn't have even met you if you hadn't decided to come 'ere, and I'm not sorry to admit that the last few weeks have been some of the best of my life."

He smiles at her, nervous and gawky as always. God, can't he just be smooth and confident for once in his life? "I mean, I s'pose you could look at it like some kind of tragic love story, cut short in its prime. But maybe it'd be better to think of it as a month together we weren't ever supposed to have?" he grips her thin hand. "Because we've had some time together at least, and we've got a bit more to come, and… I'm glad I get to spend it with you…"

His mouth feels dry, his tongue is heavy. He doesn't think he's ever talked this much in his life.

But Amy is smiling warmly, gratefully, her tears slowly drying on her cheeks. She sets her mug down carefully on the bedside table, reaching out her free hand to take his and pull them both to her chest. She doesn't say thank you, not verbally.

But as she leans in and kisses him, he can taste the words on her lips clear as day. They may be sad, long-suffering and salty with tears, but in that moment he doesn't care. He'll take whatever she gives him, just as he'll give whatever he has.

* * *

"So, next week?"

Amy smiles, nodding. "Yeah. Definitely."

Philip grins, leaning in to press one last kiss to her lips before turning and walking home. The sky is dark, the moon has risen, peeking out from behind grey clouds. Looks like they're in for rain.

"_Film night next week, yeah? Just 'cause you can't travel to all those places yourself doesn't mean you can't watch 'em on the telly!"_

"_Alright, Tiger- Paris?"_

"'_Midnight In Paris'!"_

"_Rome?"_

"'_Roman Holiday', o' course!"_

"_How about New York?"_

"_Better narrow it down, there's at least two thousand set there."_

"_Well, looks like we've got our work cut out for us, then!"_

She smiles, hugging her arms tightly across her chest. Somehow just thinking of him warms her. He wasn't the kind of man she usually fell for- he isn't stunning, or mysterious, and he isn't the most eloquent man to ever walk God's green earth, but his presence softens her. Makes her feel safe, and wanted. He's such a gentle soul- she only wishes she didn't have to wound him so.

But, unfortunately, the world can be a bloody cruel place when it wants to be.

The light is on in the kitchen. With a deep breath, she grabs the handle and opens the door, stepping into the bungalow.

Dorothy Dyer stands at the sink, scrubbing a plate that's probably been clean for at least half an hour. She turns as she hears the door, hands ceasing in their endless motion as her eyes lock on Amy. The lion doll sits on the counter, next to the delicate silk handkerchief.

Amy thinks about apologising- she may not agree with her Nan, but she didn't deserve all that shouting. She hadn't meant to hurt her.

Instead she just walks over as Dorothy peels off her rubber gloves. When the damp Marigolds are both discarded on the edge of the basin Amy takes the last step, stooping to wrap her arms around the dainty woman's shoulders and burying her face in her hair. It's an apology, of sorts.

And though neither of them say it, they both feel it. It's regret, and it's forgiveness.

It's also a goodbye.

She feels the embrace returned, firm in its support but also sad, almost resigned. Before she knows it, Amy is sobbing once more, crying for the life she could have had.

At the same moment, Dorothy Dyer is crying too, weeping for a beautiful life cut short. Weeping for the girl who's the closest thing to a daughter she's ever known.

* * *

**Well, there ya go! We're halfway through the fic, wooo! **

**Oh, Amy, I love you so- how I wish I could write you better! xD**

**So, for all of you who've stuck with me this far, I thank and salute you- and your patience shall be rewarded! Tune in next week for concentrated Siren!**

**Until next time! X**


	11. Charting Stars

**Hello, my dears! **

**Well, we're halfway through now- and as thanks to all you lovely people for sticking with it, I present to you this massive chapter of pure Siren (and yes, I know it's sudden, they barely know each other and they only just sort-of confessed to each other, but guess what I DON'T CARE AND I WANNA WRITE ROMANCE!)**

**So, without much further ado, here it is- en-fuckin'-joy!**

**************************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Also the lyrics mentioned belong to Muse, and the song is 'Unintended'**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Charting Stars**

* * *

It isn't the first time he's woken up to find a certain brown-eyed boy asleep at his side. It's also not the first time his wasted old heart pounds like a jackhammer at the sight.

Kieren is curled up in a worn leather armchair, hastily pulled up to the side of the bed. His feet tucked beneath him and his copper hair in disarray, he sleeps soundly cocooned in one of Mrs Monroe's patchwork quilts. Simon is dying to reach over and brush the flyaway strands from his dishevelled fringe out of his eyes, but he holds himself back. Kieren could wake up at any moment, last thing he wants is for the younger man to think he's creepy (okay, he might think that already, but _still_).

So instead Simon slowly, painfully pulls himself up to sit against the headboard, wincing as his feet drag across the sheets. Ah, yes, he'd forgotten about those. He pulls his blankets aside and glances down at the bandages, but sighs and tugs the sheets back into place. Sod all he can do about them right now- if he leans too far forward he might (scratch that, _will_) be sick.

"Mornin', Simon."

He looks up to the quiet, groggy voice, smiling as Kieren's bleary brown eyes watch him from the armchair. "Mornin'."

Kieren smiles lopsidedly, sitting up straight and stretching his stiff arms over his head. The quilt falls down around his waist, and Simon's heart warms as he spies the worn old _Pink Floyd _t-shirt hanging loosely from his skinny chest. Kieren immediately notices where his gaze has wondered and blushes, yanking the quilt back into place over the logo. It's not like he hasn't borrowed Simon's clothes before- he's basically been living in them since they arrived at the Monroe family home- but it's the first time Simon's seen him wake up in them, seen the way he snuggles into them.

"How're you feeling?" Kieren asks, partly to change the subject.

Simon shrugs, wincing as the motion makes his shoulder click. "Like Hell. But not, like, the deepest depths- maybe just the first circle or so."

Kieren chuckles, pushing the quilt aside and shuffling forward in his seat. "Well, that's something. Hold still a sec."

Simon does so as Kieren presses the palm of his hand to Simon's forehead, nodding approvingly after a moment. "Well, yer temperature's gone down, at least. Maybe last night was the worst."

And just like that, Simon's good mood is gone. He cringes as the events of the previous night flood back to him- the bridge, the rain, the tears and harsh words. Fucking Hell, how is Kieren even _looking_ at him right now?

"Kieren," he begins uneasily, swinging his legs off the bed to rest his sore feet on the floor despite fair-haired man's protests. "Look, 'bout everything I said… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt yeh or anything…"

"It's fine, Simon," Kieren says gently, not quite meeting his gaze. "Really, it is. 'Sides, guess there were some things I was happy to hear…"

Simon barely has time to process that sentence before a sharp pain in his side has him lurching to the left. He probably would have pitched over completely if two hands hadn't caught his arms, steadying him where he sat. He looks back up to Kieren with a grateful smile, only to find the fair-haired man's brow furrowed, his gaze searching Simon like he's trying to figure something out.

"Kieren?" Simon asks quietly, voice rough.

Kieren seems to reach some sort of decision. He leans closer, hands still gripping Simon's biceps. His face comes to a halt just inches from Simon's, his breath faltering in his nervousness. Simon knows now what he wants, although he can't quite believe it. He hesitantly lifts a hand, pressing his fingertips to Kieren's jaw lightly. It's all the encouragement the younger man needs.

Warmth floods his body as their mouths meet, eyes drifting closed as Kieren's lips begin to move and his follow their lead. The lightest pressure, barely there and yet somehow managing to be more than anything he's ever experienced. He could just go ahead and drown in it. His breath hitches, his other hand moves to grip Kieren's shoulder.

It's almost painful as Kieren breaks away, cheeks flushed and breathing quickly. His eyes flutter open, and with his pupils dilated they're even darker than ever. His gaze flickers to the hand on his shoulder, face uncertain. "Is this…" he gulps, pulling back a bit further. "Sorry, is this too fast?"

Simon's eyes widen, and he shakes his head as he moves the hand away from its bracing position on the redhead's shoulder and up to the base of his neck, trying to soften his hold. He doesn't want to give him the impression that he's pushing him away. "No. No! God, no, sorry, I just…"

He looks at Kieren's anxious face, doe-eyes wide and cheeks pink, and wonders how often he gets pushed away when he tries to be intimate- has he even been given the _chance_ to initiate kisses in the past?

Simon smiles reassuringly, hand tightening on the back of Kieren's neck- gentle but insistent. Kieren seems to search his face a moment longer before finally deciding that he won't be rejected. Their lips meet again, firmer this time, Kieren's hands sliding up from his arms to tangle in his hair, and Simon shivers at the contact (although to be fair that might just be because his fever's returning, but the other explanation is more romantic). Despite how clumsy it is, tired mouths sick of talking and tired hands that don't know where to rest, it's a little bit perfect.

Simon cradles Kieren's chin gently, and decides he's not going to be afraid right at this moment. There's going to be plenty of time for fear, doubt and guilt later, when Kieren realises exactly what he's getting into. They'll cross that bridge when they come to it.

For now, might as well enjoy the ride.

* * *

"_You could be my unintended choice to live my life extended…"_

"Alright, then, Master of Music," Simon says dryly, jerking his thumb towards the speaker up on the shop wall. "What's the band?"

"Muse," Kieren says with a snort. "Easy. If you're gonna quiz me at least make it difficult!"

Simon sniggers, returning his attention to the endless racks of CDs as he runs his fingers over the spines. They always end up here at this old record store, even when they both know perfectly well that they won't be buying anything. It passes the time- besides, they listen to the best songs at home when his parents go out and they can snatch a few hours alone with the family laptop. God bless the internet and pirated music.

"I love these guys," Kieren grins, picking up a CD and showing Simon the cover.

He peers over the rack at the nondescript pale blue box. "Zero points for cover design," he mutters, squinting at the white letters. "'The Shins'? Whose bloody idea was that?"

"Who needs a decent name when you have lyrics to make angels weep?" Kieren says dramatically, giggling at Simon's incredibly unsubtle eye-roll. He's taken to teasing the older man a lot for his often pretentious manner of speaking- poetry extracts and obscure book references included. Not that Simon really minds. If he's going to be teased he's happy it's by this snarky bundle of sunshine and misery who'd picked him off the street. Besides, every time he makes a sarcastic comment or a bad pun it's like watching him come back to life. The lonely kid who'd been content to freeze in the streets seems to slide away, if only for a moment.

"Si? You alright?"

"Hmm?" Simon mumbles, noticing with a start that Kieren has walked around the stand and is at his side, looking down with concern etched in his features. Simon follows his gaze to see his own hands shaking where they rest against the pristine plastic rows.

"'M fine," he mutters, wiping his slick palms against his jeans. He must be sweating all over- sometimes it still feels like his body is being dragged over hot coals.

Kieren isn't convinced, but doesn't say another word. Instead he just extends his hand slightly, fingers brushing softly against Simon's in a comforting gesture- so far it's the closest they've come to holding hands in public. They share a fleeting smile, Kieren bumping his shoulder before turning round and walking briskly along the shelves towards the second-hand vinyls, brows knitted in mock concentration as he scans the titles.

Simon shakes his head, following him with a smirk- a truly ridiculous man he's decided to fall for.

* * *

Sometimes it feels like he's going to crumble, the pain wracking his body driving him slowly insane.

But it doesn't bother him now, or at least not as much.

Because every time he bites his lip and clenches his fist against a fresh wave of heat, he knows that he's getting closer. With every wave of nausea that has him doubling over and retching he knows it's one less attack until he's finally better.

Fucking Hell, is he glad that Kieren isn't sick of him yet.

Sometimes the fair-haired man will brush past him, lightly touching his arm or fingers as he goes. Sometimes he'll pull him down for gentle, fleeting kisses when they're alone. Sometimes they'll be less gentle, and Simon wants to pour out his gratitude to the boy for not treating him like glass- although he can't promise that he'll return the favour.

Those little touches, be they swift or lingering, soft or firm, are what keep him going. Keeps his body anchored when his mind is a thousand miles away.

They're what keep him from once again racing out into the night and not coming back.

They're what persuade him that whatever awaits on the other side of the pain has to be better than any quick relief he could get elsewhere.

He notices the incredulous looks he gets from his father sometimes. The first day he sees that look on his face is the first day he knows he must be getting there. He wouldn't be staring at him like that unless he'd really taken him by surprise- and the one thing in the world that would most definitely take Iain Monroe by surprise is the sight of his hopeless son actually making a positive difference in his life. He starts to wish he'd made some kind of bet with his dad before he'd started this, he could use the extra cash- the list of CDs he planned on buying at Kieren's recommendation was ever growing, as was the list of CDs he wanted to buy for the man himself.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he freezes mid-step. Realisation dawns, a slow smile spreads across his face.

Yes, he does wish he'd put a few quid on his recovery.

Because for the first time, he knows without a doubt that he's getting through this.

* * *

"What's wrong?"

Kieren shrugs, shoulder bumping Simon's. They lie side by side on Simon's narrow bed, the laptop open on the table top as one of Kieren's YouTube playlists fills the room with gentle music.

"I just miss it, sometimes," he says quietly, eyes riveted on the ceiling.

"Yeah?" Simon nudges, turning his head towards him. "What're you missing today?"

"Drawing," Kieren says, smiling slightly. "Used to draw all the time at home. Guess bringing a sketchbook was the last thing on my mind…"

Simon watches his face for a second, the younger boy's brown eyes shining wistfully. He reaches across Kieren's chest to the table, fumbling around for something and finally finding it. He presses the pen into Kieren's hand with a smile. "Draw something."

Kieren smirks, amused. "Where? In the air?"

"Not sure my pen's up to that much," Simon chuckles. After a moment's hesitation he extends his arm again, draping it palm-up across Kieren's chest. Kieren's finger traces the track marks delicately.

"You sure?" he whispers.

Simon nods. Kieren sits up, Simon's arm sliding onto his lap. He gently holds it in place by the wrist and uncaps the pen, moving the tip closer to his pale skin. "Sorry. Not exactly a blank canvas," Simon mutters jokily, voice tinged with sadness. It hurts, seeing his marred skin against Kieren's smooth arms.

"Same," Kieren grimaces, turning his left hand a moment to flash the fraying bandage. "Don't worry- I can work with this."

The first touch is cold, the gentle prod feeling a little too close to the phantom stab of a needle on Simon's sensitive skin. But then Kieren's hand moves, the nib sweeps across his wrist in a gentle circle around the first scar, spiralling outwards with a feather-touch.

He doesn't watch, but he can feel sweeps and spirals as they decorate his skin, feels the pen skirt nimbly around the raised purple flaws. After a while, curiosity gets the better of him and he glances down. "Huh."

"What?" Kieren asks absentmindedly, deep in concentration.

"Should've known you'd be a Van Gogh fan," Simon murmurs.

Kieren smiles shyly as he finishes another wave, delicate patterns swirling away from the angry marks he's transformed into blazing stars. "Yeah. He's my favourite."

He pauses, pen hovering an inch from Simon's skin. "I've heard a story about 'im," he says quietly, returning to his sketching with a sad smile. "Not sure if it's true or not. Apparently once 'e drank yellow paint, because he thought yellow was the colour of happiness. He thought if he drank the _colour_ of happiness, it'd put the happiness inside him."

Simon ignores the slowly spreading masterpiece on his arm, captivated by Kieren's face as the light gleams off the honesty in his eyes.

"I always understood him, what he went through," Kieren says, brow furrowing. "But I never understood that."

"No?" Simon asks softly, enraptured.

"No," Kieren confirms with another sweep of the pen. "I get where he was comin' from- if his sadness came from the inside, I get why he wanted to wash it out, but it seems like the wrong way to do it. I mean, what good is a happy colour if you can't _see_ it? If it was me, trying to fix myself with colours, I wouldn't hide it away inside me where I could never see it. I'd… I'd paint my walls with it, I'd dye my clothes with it. I'd put it everywhere, so it was never out of sight…"

He looks up, frowning. "Sorry," he mumbles apologetically, turning back to his work. "I'm rambling."

"I like hearin' yeh talk," Simon says softly, sincerely, fingers tangling in the loose end of Kieren's bandage.

"Even about boring art shit?" Kieren asks teasingly, but he can't quite cover the uncertainty in his tone. Simon's heart breaks for him- the classic example of a kid who's been told he's boring so many times that he's started to believe it.

"Especially about 'boring art shit'," Simon says, gently pulling his arm away so he can prop himself up on his elbow. He leans up, his lips ghosting over Kieren's tenderly as the younger man's eyes flutter closed. He presses kisses to Kieren's closed eyelids, his forehead, his cheeks and jaw, feeling his tense frame soften under his touch. He could happily melt along with him.

* * *

The small touches become longer, more frequent. Kieren sits closer to him, holds his hand under the table, runs his fingers absentmindedly through his hair when they sit together on the couch with the radio softly filling the room with jazz or classical, whatever Mrs. Monroe is using as a soundtrack to her chores and crocheting today.

Simon once again finds himself wondering how much of this Kieren has done in the past- he's not heard all the details about the famous Rick Macy yet, but it doesn't sound like the two of them had had a particularly fulfilling relationship. Hiding away, sneaking around, walking round every day pretending not to feel what they felt. He doesn't blame Rick for it- from what he hears about the kid's dad he didn't have much of a choice- but it angers him all the same. Kieren doesn't deserve to be hidden away like someone's dirty little secret. He deserves better than that.

_He deserves better than me._

Sometimes the kisses grow long, the touches more firm, insistent. Kieren is building up to something, and Simon knows what that something is.

But as much as he wants Kieren- wants every part of him from the hair on his head to the tips of his toes- he can't give him what he wants.

Kieren may not be breakable- quite the opposite, actually- but he is young. Too young for Simon- nearly ten years between them, Kieren barely over the threshold into adulthood. What's more he's good, and he's pure and gentle, and he definitely deserves better than a twenty-seven year old (ex) drug addict with an inferiority complex for what may very well be his first time. God, this kid has terrible taste in men…

So whenever Kieren gets too close he shies away, makes excuses, feigns illness (not exactly hard given his current condition), anything to keep him at arm's length.

Simon has disappointed a lot of people in his life.

He doesn't want Kieren to be one of them.

* * *

Kieren has no idea what time it is, and he honestly couldn't care less. His fingers bunch harder in the fabric of Simon's shirt, holding tight as they kiss slowly and tenderly in the dark of Simon's room. He'd never known kissing could be like this- so unhurried, guilt-free, just _comforting_. Occasionally Simon shudders against him- lingering traces of withdrawal fevers making his body tremble- but he's better now than he's ever been, solid and stable beneath his hands.

He doesn't even realise those hands have unclenched from the fabric and wondered down until he feels skin beneath his fingertips, feels Simon's stomach muscles twitch slightly at the contact.

The Irish man breaks the kiss with a gasp, misty eyes meeting Kieren's across the pillow in the darkened room. He carefully lowers his hand from Kieren's face, gently guiding the redhead's wandering hand away from his stomach and back to his shoulder.

Kieren watches him, swallowing back a twinge of self-doubt. "You do that a lot."

"Do what?" Simon murmurs.

"Pull away," Kieren says softly, the hand now on Simon's shoulder gripping a little tighter. He feels the older man tense up beneath him, but he keeps going. "I mean, you can just tell me if it's too fast, or you just don't… want to," he says lamely, seriously wishing he had the blue-eyed man's way with words.

Simon shakes his head slightly against the pillow, fingers reaching back up to cup Kieren's jaw. "That's not it…"

"Then what is it?" Kieren asks, somehow both worried and frustrated. A straight answer would be nice, just this _once_. This is the kind of situation where he'd really prefer not to have any ambiguity.

"I just…" Simon begins, searching Kieren's face with doubt in his eyes. "Are you sure 'bout this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Kieren asks softly, reaching up to stroke a thumb across Simon's pale cheekbone.

Simon shrugs against the covers, not meeting Kieren's eyes. "I'm too old for you, yeh know…"

It seems like a reasonable misgiving, but Kieren knows that's not really what's bothering him. Or at least not the main thing. "Eh, what's nine years these days, really?" he murmurs, trying to keep his voice light- he doesn't want Simon to keep doing this, building everything up in his head to be an insurmountable obstacle.

Simon stares at him, and his gaze is still just a doubtful as ever. The age gap isn't what he's scared about, not really. It's obvious- frankly if he was _that_ opposed to their relationship he wouldn't even be indulging in all the kisses and caresses they shared every night. He's not worried that he's too old.

He's worried that he's not good enough.

Sometimes Simon will completely blindside him with a show of affection or admiration, kind words of praise higher than anything Kieren's heard before. He'll call him words like 'beautiful', or 'incredible', throw them out there like he doesn't even need to think about it. It's flattering, of course, but Kieren's so unaccustomed to the praise that he finds himself stuttering and stammering in response, or cutting him off with a kiss before he can say anything else to confuse him. Maybe it's just some Florence Nightingale thing since he's been taking care of him these past weeks, maybe it's because he seems to have inadvertently saved his life twice, but Simon looks at him like he can't even believe he's real sometimes.

Despite all his obvious flaws- the drugs, the cynicism, his obvious feelings of inferiority- Kieren still has a hard time getting to grips with the fact that this gorgeous, kind, amazing man can look at him like that. Stare right at his scared, youthful face and lanky body like he's some kind of masterpiece, and not just a heartbroken kid way out of his depth in the real world.

Kieren takes in every inch of his pale face in the moonlight, blue eyes full of uncertainty. He leans in and presses another gentle kiss to his lips, feeling the slightest tremor as the Irish man rests a hand on his cheek and reciprocates.

Kieren has his doubts, too. Of course he does- here he is, three weeks after nearly killing himself and running away from home, sleeping in a bed with a recovering addict he'd pulled from the gutter, kissing him just months after Rick, _his_ Rick, died alone in some godforsaken no man's land. He wants to be disgusted with himself.

But it's so fucking hard to feel guilty with Simon gazing at him like he's the only thing that matters.

"Simon…" he whispers, breaking away from his mouth to kiss his cheek, his jaw, brush his lips across his ear. "Trust me, I'm sure."

Simon breathes in sharply, possibly still wanting to argue, but he clearly just doesn't have it in him to resist anymore. He pulls Kieren's mouth back to his own, kissing him softly but hungrily as he braces himself on his arm to lean over him, pushing Kieren down into the mattress with his weight. Kieren hums contentedly against his lips, feeling one of Simon's hands reach down to grip the back of his neck and hold him close. Even with his tall frame and large hands he's so careful, handling Kieren like a priceless artefact, the strong arms that have been regaining their definition in the wake of his recovery and routine work-outs never pressing too hard.

Kieren thinks about how this could have been different, how it could've been if he and Rick had done anything more than chaste kisses in the dark- fifteen years old, a first time stolen on the cold floor of the den, Rick's breath in his ear reeking of booze and desperation. He immediately feels guilty for thinking it, but it's true. For the first time, he's actually glad that they held back. They were too young, too riddled with guilt to have had anything more than what they'd got. Maybe if they'd only had more time…

But now isn't the time for thoughts of Rick, or that old den and all its memories.

He tugs gently but insistently at the hem of Simon's shirt, waiting for the dark-haired man to lift his arms so he can pull it over his head. It's barely off before Simon is surging down once again, not letting Kieren's lips go for a second longer than necessary. But now when Kieren reaches up to him he finds soft skin beneath his fingers, warm flesh responding to his touch.

He breathlessly breaks away from the kiss, pushing Simon back so he can look at him, see the bruises and scrapes that decorate his pale skin like war paint. Each mark must have a story, just like the tracks on his arms. Some of them are new and vivid, some are faded like old photographs, but Kieren catalogues them all, running his fingers gently over each blemish, feeling Simon shiver every time he leans down to trace his lips lightly against the surface.

Eventually Simon can't take it anymore, pulling Kieren's head away from his chest to drag it back to his level, colliding with him in a bruising kiss as he reaches down to unbutton his shirt as quickly as his clumsy, shaking hands can manage. Kieren kisses back, breath catching as Simon's fingers brush his chest through the opening. He feels heat beneath his skin, rising in his stomach and abdomen, a wave of sensation that has him shrugging out of the oversized shirt as quickly as possible in favour of wrapping his arms round Simon's waist and pulling him close. He can't get enough as he drags his fingers over every inch of skin he can reach, sighing as he feels Simon's lips burning a trail along his neck and shoulder.

It's timid at first, but it's not long before Simon's eyes alight, his grip strengthening as he begins to take charge.

It is not in Kieren's nature to be passive or submissive, both traits he forgoes in favour of brashness whenever possible, but there's something so captivating about seeing Simon's long-dulled eyes burn with unbridled desire that has him lying back and observing with bated breath as the Irish man's lips trace his body like a brush across a blank canvas. This isn't like the old days. This isn't staying quiet and gentle as Rick kisses him, terrified that any false moves could send him running home to his father. This isn't meekly falling back and staying silent as people push him around and call him names, staying quiet in the hopes of fading into the background. There is no background- as far as Simon and his ardent gaze is concerned, Kieren is literally the only thing in the universe. It's not fear or a fading sense of duty that holds him in place; it's white-hot desire coursing through his veins as he watches every movement of Simon's mouth and hands across his skin, his pale eyes almost pitch black with yearning, strands of dark hair glimmering silver in the soft glow of the moon through the window.

_Beautiful…_

* * *

Simon's first impulse is to let go, go wild, take hold of the body being offered to him and ravish it like he always used to when this was his only distraction from the endless cold.

But he finds himself softening his grip, brushing gentle kisses across every spare centimetre of skin he can find, trailing his fingers lightly along it and not even once thinking about digging his nails in.

This really isn't like any other experience he's ever had. It's not a drunken one-night stand, it's not an alternative payment for drugs or shelter, it's not even a desperate grapple for human contact like he's searched for on many a lonely night in the past. As he brushes his lips over Kieren's hip while slipping his thumb into the waistband of his jeans, he realises he doesn't even care what he gets out of this. Right now he is quite simply living for Kieren- for the way his hands fist in the rumpled blankets, the way his muscles contract whenever his fingers find a sensitive patch, for the way he looks down on him as he explores every inch. Jesus, his eyes had been dark before, but _now…_

"Simon…" Kieren breathes raggedly, almost pleading.

He nods, moving back up Kieren's body to claim his mouth once more, tugging at his jeans and feeling Kieren lift his hips from the bed as he slides them off and throws them aside. He feels Kieren's fingers thread through his hair, he leans into the touch almost unknowingly. Hands fumble, layers of fabric are peeled away, and suddenly they're skin to skin, clothes lying carelessly strewn across the floor. The contact is almost too much to bear, his mind is turning cartwheels as sparks fly wherever their bodies touch.

He pulls back slightly, and sees Kieren gazing up at him with eyes blacker than space. "Y'alright?" he rasps softly, his voice gruff.

Kieren nods, but uncertainty flickers in his eyes. "Yeah. Yeah…"

Simon pulls back further, watching Kieren's face with concern. "Kier?"

Kieren watches him, and Simon can practically hear the cogs turning in his head. Maybe he's changed his mind. Maybe he's repulsed now he's seen the train wreck of Simon's body beneath his clothes. Maybe this is all too fast- fuck, is this his first time? Oh, God- he'd suspected as much but now it's really hitting home, just how fucking _big _this is.

"'S just…" Kieren whispers, and Simon thinks he sees something like fear in his eyes. He feels his fingers tighten on the back of his head, sees him bite his lip before opening his mouth again.

"Say you love me, again…"

He says it so softly Simon almost missed it. His brain leaps to catch up, suddenly remembering that night on the bridge, that confession so quiet he wasn't even sure if Kieren had heard it. Well, he doesn't need to wonder about that anymore.

"I love you," he murmurs, surprising himself by not hesitating a second. He leans down again, whispering against the curve of Kieren's neck. "I love you…"

He breathes the words across every pore, feeling Kieren's grip tighten and his body mould to his as he says them over and over, willing Kieren to believe it, willing himself to embrace it. Right now he doesn't care that Kieren doesn't say it back, doesn't even _think_ about the possibility that this will never last. This moment's too perfect to waste on such trifling thoughts and insignificant worries.

Bathed in the silvery moonlight, pushing words and reason aside, minds and bodies drawn inexorably together like atoms at the start of time, Simon feels like he's seeing the sky for the first time.

For one blissful moment, every worthless star in the galaxy shines like the rarest diamond.

* * *

**Y'all know I love you, right?**

**(BTW if you wanna read this with music sometime, I'd recommend 'New Slang' by the Shins for the bit where Kier draws on Si's arm- that's what I imagine they're listening to at that bit!)**

**So, hope you enjoyed this delightful bundle of romance- aren't I good to you? ;) And it is in no way compensation for any kind of upcoming painful separation period or cruel intervention of fate- oh, fuck, sorry, ignore that, fuck...**

***ahem* So, until next time!**

***backs slowly away***


	12. Silence Is Golden

**Hey there!**

**Well, here we go again! Y'all were pretty quiet last chapter- hope you liked that lovely smattering of Siren-ness! Some more smatterings to come, before I do something immeasurably cruel no doubt.**

**Coming up: our Kier takes an important step in the road to recovery, but what does it mean for his relationship with Simon? Enjoy!**

**************************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve: Silence Is Golden**

* * *

"Alright there, _pal_?"

"Shut up," Jem grumbles, but her eye roll is a little less malicious than usual. Amy grins, taking a chug of her (still completely scalding) tea. She'd popped round for the sake of seeing Sue, only to find that both the elder Walkers were out today. Fortunately, Jem seemed happy enough to partake in a drink and a chat.

It's plain to see that the girl's still cut up about her brother- well, who wouldn't be? But she smiles more now. She talks to Amy (well, sometimes), she doesn't explode at her parents as much, and from the sounds of it she's back to talking to her oldest friend Lisa. Good for her. Really the best thing she could possibly do right now is surround herself with friends.

They're not exactly deep in conversation right this second. Some days they chat, other days Jem decides she'd rather sit in companionable silence. Frankly either option is a step up from the old days of locking herself in her room and cranking the heavy metal so loud that she can't hear herself think. But Amy likes it when Jem talks, even if it's just about the horrible girls at school or the new album she's bought. Talking and listening, that's what being a friend is, and it's a skill Amy Dyer has in spades.

Jem looks at her from over her steaming mug, deep in thought. Amy waits patiently- if there's something she wants to say, she'll say it.

And it looks like she's about to when the house phone rings.

"Ugh, I'll get it," Jem mutters grumpily, rolling her eyes and dragging herself to her feet. Amy chuckles- that girl may love being left alone from time to time, but she hates having to pick up the phone and field all her parents' calls. Too much like hard work.

Jem slumps over the living room table where the phone has been dropped, picking it up and clicking the 'receive' button before holding it to her ear. "Hello?"

Amy gazes thoughtfully out the window, watching the late morning sun as it struggles to peek through the clouds. It's a few moments before she realises how quiet Jem's gone. She turns to look at her.

Jem stands in the middle of the living room, her free hand fisted at her side while the other holds the phone in a white-knuckled grip. Amy stands up and takes a step closer, concern clouding her features, mouth opening to ask what's wrong.

Then Jem speaks, one simple choked-out word, and all Amy's unspoken questions are answered.

"…Kier?"

* * *

The day started off as most days do. Simon woke up to an empty bed, having a brief moment of panic before realising that Kieren must have crept back to his own room sometime in the small hours. The boy still wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea that either of his parents could walk in on them both snuggled up together at any moment. Obviously sneaking around had become second nature to the closeted kid from the countryside.

But life was trundling on in the way it always did (well, the way it always had over the last few days. Somehow it feels like so much longer). Simon woke up, staggered to the kitchen, kissed his smiling mother on the cheek as she offered him a plate full of toast. Kieren emerged half an hour later, blinking in the harsh light of day- he wasn't much of a morning person. He just slouched over to the seat at Simon's side, leaning his head on his shoulder and almost dozing off right then and there while Lana made him some breakfast. Sometimes Lana will give them a knowing smile, like she knows exactly why they're both so tired, but she never says anything on the matter (especially in the presence of his father, for which Simon is immeasurably grateful).

Now it's almost eleven, and Simon has Kieren's feet in his lap and an open poetry book in his hands (_Yeats_, Kieren had taken quite a liking to it). He'd read aloud for a bit, but Kieren had dozed off again about halfway through 'A Dialogue of Self and Soul'. Still, Simon couldn't be angry at him- frankly he was fucking adorable when he slept. Jesus, he was going soft.

He stares down at the page, the same page he's been on for the last twenty minutes. He can barely see the words, the letters swimming off the page while his brain struggles to comprehend the situation. He's alive. He's clean (well, mostly). He's back with his family. He doesn't want to leave again. He isn't sad, or depressed or hopeless. He's in love. That in itself is a hard enough concept to grasp, even without taking into consideration the ridiculous, unprecedented cosmic fluke that his feelings are (at least partially) returned. That was a plot twist he'd never seen coming.

He looks up from his book with a smile, expecting to see Kieren's eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open in his slumber. Instead he sees bright eyes focused on the ceiling, brow creased deep in thought. It's a look he's seen on his face many times in the past few days.

"What's wrong?"

Kieren leans the side of his face against the back of the sofa, smiling softly at Simon. "Nothing."

"Liar," Simon says bluntly, raising an eyebrow.

"Fine," Kieren huffs, pulling his legs from Simon's lap and tucking his feet beneath himself. "It's just... sometimes," he says slowly. "When we're together, and you're feeling okay, it just feels so _easy_. And sometimes it's so easy that I forget…"

"Forget?" Simon prods gently when Kieren goes silent.

Kieren sighs, closing his eyes. "Sometimes I forget about what I've left behind."

Simon stays silent, waiting for him to elaborate in his own time. He doesn't disappoint.

"I just _left, _Simon," he mutters bitterly, and it's easy to see that the bitterness is aimed at himself. "I didn't even think. I have parents at home, and a sister. They have no fuckin' idea where I am- I could be dead, for all they know!"

"You could call them," Simon suggests quietly, immediately feeling guilty- that would be a painful conversation for everyone involved. "Put their minds at ease."

"I know. I should, I know that," Kieren says quietly, burying his face in the cushioned back of the sofa.

Simon stares at him, the strange boy so far away from home. "You feel guilty."

Kieren nods against the leather.

"For leaving?"

Another nod.

"And for not thinking about them while you've been gone?"

"Yes," comes the grumbled reply.

Simon smiles, but he's a little too sad to make it sincere. "So basically you're feeling guilty for _not_ feeling guilty?"

"Simon," Kieren groans. "It's too early in the morning for this shit."

Despite the serious conversation, Simon chuckles. He's such a teenager. "It's nearly lunchtime, y'know."

"We only had breakfast five minutes ago," Kieren says, confused.

"That was three hours ago. You fell asleep."

"_Oh,_" Kieren mouths silently, cheeks going red.

Simon smiles, reaching out to run a hand through Kieren's ruffled copper hair fondly. As endearing as scatter-brained Kieren was, it wasn't the natural order of things. He's sleeping more and more over the last few days, often missing huge chunks of time without even realising. In all honesty, it's getting worrying. Maybe his guilt is weighing on his mind more than he cares to admit- it must be bad if it has him retreating to unconsciousness on a regular basis.

"I think yeh should call 'em," Simon says softly, resting his hand on his neck gently. It wouldn't be a pleasant call, for sure, but it was important. And he owes Kieren all the encouragement he can possibly give- where would he be right now if the brown-eyed boy hadn't convinced him to go home to his parents all those weeks ago?

Kieren's eyes are wide, his slim fingers tapping nervously on his knees. "Yeah, but… what do I even s_ay?_"

"'I'm still alive' might be a good starting point," Simon shrugs.

"And then what?" Kieren snaps, glowering. "'Don't worry, I'm fine, I'm shacking up with a drug addict- he's very nice, don't worry! Washed the blood outta me hoodie and everything'?"

"_Ex-_addict," Simon corrects with a smirk. "And yeh don't even have to go into that much detail if you don't want- just say you're okay, say you're safe, say you'll see them around sometime, hang up. It's somethin', at least."

Kieren grins. "Using the 'E-X' word, are we?"

It would seem so. Simon shrugs, an unconvincing attempt to downplay the weight of the words. "What can I say? I'm feeling pretty good today."

Kieren glances towards the kitchen, finding it empty. Lana must be upstairs. He turns back, leaning swiftly forward to press a gentle kiss to Simon's surprised lips.

"Oi," Simon laughs quietly, gently pushing Kieren back and smiling knowingly (before any extended contact gives him more butterflies in his stomach). "No changing the subject."

Kieren groans as Simon hands him the cordless house phone, glowering at the handset. "Do I have to?"

"Can't force yeh to do anything," Simon murmurs, fiddling absentmindedly with the fraying end of Kieren's bandage. "Wouldn't want to, anyway. I just think it'd be good for yeh- straighten things out before it's too late."

"Fuckin' hate it when yer right," Kieren mutters, glaring daggers at the phone in his hand.

He always does this- puts on an angry face and an aggressive tone, cover up his fear. Simon wonders who he learned that from. He reaches out, catching Kieren's hand in his own and clasping it tightly.

"'S okay," he says softly. "I'll stick by yeh, alright?"

Kieren meets his gaze steadily, and he must draw some confidence from his presence because he looks down to the phone and keys in a well-memorised number in a flurry of movement. The fear is still there as he raises it to his ear, and it intensifies a moment after the ringing stops and a bored-sounding female voice answers.

But Simon leans in, kisses his cheek gently, rests his forehead against Kieren's.

Finally, Kieren lets out a faltering breath, and speaks.

* * *

Kieren feels his heart race a mile a minute as the phone rings, each shrill tone echoing deafeningly in his eardrums. Only Simon's hand in his own keeps him from getting up and running away.

"Hello?"

He feels tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Fuck, he's missed that voice.

Crippling fear assaults him once more- he can't decide if it's better or worse that the first person he contacts at home is his sister. Would he have been better off with one of his parents? Would Jem just shout him down? Oh, God, he has absolutely no way to justify himself, _fuck._

Simon squeezes his hand, kisses his cheek. He feels his forehead, warm and reassuring, against his own. He closes his eyes, a laboured breath escaping his lips. He grips the phone tighter.

"Hi, Jem."

Silence. The line buzzes with background static. The fear returns- did she hang up? Jesus, did she _faint?_ Is she just allowing her rage to build slowly in preparation to give him the tongue-lashing of his life?

"…Kier?"

Her voice sounds so small, disbelieving. He nods before remembering she can't see him. "Yeah. It's me."

A strange sound echoes on the line. It takes him a moment to realise that she's crying.

"Fuckin' Hell, Kier," she sobs, angry relief colouring her voice. "Where the bloody fuck 'ave you been?!"

He almost bursts into tears himself. Relief washes over him, flooding his senses as he continues to nod uselessly against the phone. "Long story," he laughs breathlessly.

She's not angry. Well, okay, she is angry- furious, in fact- but she's also relieved and she's not going to tear him a new one right at this second. It's better than he could have ever hoped for.

"Well, what 'appened?" she demands, he can imagine her arms waving angrily on the other end. "Where are yeh? What've you been doing for the last month, eh? Come on, I'm all fuckin' ears!"

"Jem," he says, wincing. "Look I can't tell yeh where I am at the moment-"

"Why? Holy shit, are you bein' held hostage?"

"What? No! No, it's complicated, is all. I'll tell yeh soon, just… not now, okay?"

He hears her slow intake of breath, and can almost sense her sharp nod. "Yeah, okay. Alright. Look, yer okay aren't yeh?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he glances at Simon, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Great, actually."

"Well, fan-fuckin'-tastic," she says dryly. He can feel her glare through the phone.

"Look, Jem," he says, swiping at his eyes and the tears forming at the edges. "I just called to say I'm alright- I'm not dead or dying or anything. Guess there's a lot more to it than that, but I'll tell yeh some other time."

"When're you coming back?"

_A week? A month? A year? Never?_

"Soon," he says quietly. "I swear."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, okay, then," she says huffily. He can still hear her sniffles, so the standoffish act isn't entirely effective, but he decides not to point that out.

"Tell Mum and Dad I'm okay, yeah?"

"Will do," she says. She sighs, the sound rattling across the line. "Yer off now, aren't yeh?"

"'Fraid so," he says gently, gripping the phone tighter.

"Well…" she says, he can practically feel her wringing the phone in her hands. "I'll see yeh soon, yeah?"

It isn't a question. "Promise. Take care, alright, sis?"

"Yeah," she whispers, starting to choke up again. "Yeah, you too."

"Bye," he breathes, blinking back tears.

"See yer," she mutters. There's a moment of static, followed by the dead silence of an empty line as she reluctantly hangs up.

He drops the phone on the sofa beside him, a long, rattling sigh slipping from his lips. He reaches up to his face. His fingers come away damp- obviously he's not as good at holding back tears as he'd hoped.

He's almost startled when another hand joins his, gently dabbing at the shining streaks on his cheeks. He looks up to Simon, blue eyes looking down on him with something in between pride and concern.

"Alright?" he asks, thumb stroking Kieren's cheek tenderly.

Kieren nods, leaning forward. He presses his face into Simon's chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist.

As he feels Simon's arms drape gently around his shoulders, he finally allows himself to cry.

"'S okay," Simon murmurs, rubbing small circles on his back.

"I told her I'd be back soon," Kieren sobs quietly, panic rising in his chest. "I'm gonna have to-"

"Shhhh," Simon soothes gently, one hand sliding up to comb through Kieren's hair. "'S fine. No rush- just take all the time yeh need, alright?"

Keiren nods against his chest, tears still flowing from his eyes, soaking Simon's shirt through to his skin. At least he doesn't seem to mind.

Cuddled tightly against his body, arms clinging to him like a lifeline, Kieren is once again struck by the sheer oddity of their situation. Here they are, over three weeks after two mutually failed suicide attempts, holding onto each other like they've been together for years, like they anchor each other to the world. Sometimes, leaning into Simon's embrace, it feels like the Irish man was made for him. Sometimes they fit so perfectly together that he forgets for a moment about everything- the drugs, the age gap, the fact that they've known each other for less than a month and were both half dead when they met. When he hugs Simon, pushes his face into the crook of his neck at the perfect height and feels strong arms at his back, it feels like he's found his slot in the universe. For a second, everything clicks into place.

He burrows into it now, folding into the cradle of Simon's arms with a sigh as his eyes flutter closed, draws strength from the strong heartbeat under his own.

He's terrified.

They'll be relieved to see him- he knows that without a doubt now. But he has no idea what else awaits him. Will they demand to know what happened? Is he going to have to tell them about his almost-suicide? Rick? What about Jem- will she forgive him or has he essentially thrown whatever brother-sister trust bond they had under the bus? What does he tell them about his time away?

What does he tell them about Simon?

He shrivels into himself, screwing his eyes tighter shut.

Simon can't come with him. He has a family, now. He has his life back.

Kieren feels like crying all over again, his fingers clinging to Simon's shirt.

He has to go and see his family. He owes them an explanation. He belongs with them, back in that drab old village with all its memories, good and bad.

But he's not sure he's ready to give up his newly-discovered space in the universe just yet.

* * *

With shaking hands, Jem presses the 'end call' button, the silent phone falling from her hand to the table.

"That was 'im, wasn't it?" Amy asks softly, taking a step closer, arms crossed awkwardly over her chest.

Jem nods mutely, sinking slowly down onto the couch. Within moments her shoulders are shaking with silent sobs.

Amy hangs back a second, conflicted. Every instinct screams to step up and comfort her, but Jem hasn't proved to be much of a hugging person in the past and she doesn't want to offend her. But when the girl's sobs become louder, she throws caution to the wind.

She strides over, dropping onto the sofa at Jem's side and laying a comforting arm across her back.

Maybe it's the shock, making her drop the icy façade, but as soon as they make contact Jem sags under the weight of her sobs, leaning into Amy's side and crying into her shoulder. Amy doesn't speak- no matter how much she wants to- just holding Jem tight through the tears. She'd love to talk it out, offer mindless encouragements, listen to what the prodigal brother had to say, but it's not important right at this second.

Sometimes being a friend is knowing when to stay silent.

* * *

**Well, there it is! Kinda tiny compared to the last chapter, but important nonetheless!**

**For the next few chapters, I'd like you to keep one thing in your mind: it's always darkest before the dawn.**

**Until next time! X**


	13. I'll Miss You

**Moi, again!**

**Fancy some guilt-ridden fluff? Yeeeeaaaaahhh, 'course you do! **

**Quick note: I'm so used to being a girl and writing about girls/zombies/teenage boys who haven't reached that stage yet that I sometimes forget about a little thing called facial hair, guess I haven't mentioned it once this whole time xD So y'know what, I'm gonna go ahead and say that Kieren has a baby face and doesn't have that problem, and Simon has spent most of this fic in a state of rough stubbly scruffiness since he keeps a razor on him but rarely uses it (ain't nobody got time for that!). Sorry, that was kind of an oversight on my part, but I'm sure your lovely imaginative minds have been filling in the blanks!**

**Enjoy!  
**

******************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3 Also lyrics mentioned belong to The Smiths!**

* * *

******************************Chapter Thirteen: I'll Miss You**

* * *

"Kieren?"

Kieren remains silent, hugging his knees to his chest with his back against the wall. His curled toes dig into the soft sheets, creating the slightest dip in the old mattress. He hopes that maybe the owner of the voice will assume he's still asleep and just go away.

Another knock on the door shatters those hopes. "Kieren, y'alright?"

"Fine," Kieren says, just loud enough to be heard. "Just tired. I'll be down in a bit."

Silence.

"Okay," Simon says quietly, barely audible and far from convinced. Kieren hears his feet shuffle away towards the stairs, waits until he hears the tell-tale squeak of that tricky top step before he lets out the breath he'd been holding. He sighs deeply, head flopping down against his knees.

Three days had passed since that fateful phone call. He was already missing the sound of Jem's voice.

He'd meant what he said. He was coming home soon- he had to, really. He'd been gone long enough without explanation already, the time had come to crawl out of the woodwork.

Unfortunately, it was _much _easier said than done.

He groans, tilting his head back. It bangs against the wall, slightly painfully, but aside from an initial wince he really couldn't care less. Eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling, he mentally recites his options.

_Option A) Suck it up, go home and face the music. It can't be all bad, they'll be relieved to see you even if they're pissed. Yeah, you might be going back to everything you hate about that place, too, but at least now you know Simon- who's to say you can't come and visit from time to time?_

_Option B) Call Jem again, tell her you're not coming back, hope that they'll move on with their lives while you hide away with your new boyfriend for the foreseeable future until he gets sick of you. _

His head bangs against the wall again. It's not an accident this time.

Of course, he knows which option he _should _take- obviously the noblest course of action would be to make amends for his mistakes, patch things up with his sister and his parents, and try and get back to the sort-of life he'd had before.

Maybe it's spoiled him, all this time with Simon- the open affection, the honesty, the feeling of freedom he has now that he knows someone as screwed up as he is that he doesn't need to wear a mask for. But now that he's had a taste he can't imagine anything worse than going back to the way things were. Back home, he was an outcast. Okay, maybe he still is, but at least Simon is too. They have each other, or at least they do for now.

He has a place here. It's not ambitious, or glamourous. They're still living with Simon's parents, they still deal with hostility from his father and they're both still unemployed layabouts with not a penny to their name. It's certainly a far cry from the art school he'd been accepted into, and the hopefully successful career it may have led onto. But it's a place, nonetheless- a tiny little space in the world that fits him like a glove. He's not sure he's ready to vacate it just yet, if ever.

But he has to make a decision, one way or another. Because for the past three days he's probably been a shitty person to be around. He hides away, barely speaks, sleeps for most of the day, sneaks out of Simon's room in the small hours to slip back into his own bed. He's not sure why he does that- it's either because he's not keen on the idea of Simon's parents walking in on them, or he just doesn't want to face Simon in the morning knowing full well he'll be sleeping the day away in his own room. Probably both.

_You've got to be either here or there, no more waiting around in limbo._

He flops onto his side, raising his hands to his head and curling into the rumpled bedcovers with a groan.

He hates tough decisions.

* * *

Simon stalks morosely down the stairs, perhaps stomping a little harder than strictly necessary.

He woke up alone again, despite falling asleep with his face buried in Kieren's soft strawberry blond hair. He wouldn't have minded so much- fair enough, the bloke was self-conscious- if it weren't for the fact that he barely even saw Kieren in the daytime anymore. An appearance here or there, some shared meals, curling up together in the same bed at night, and that was all.

It's all gone downhill since that phone call. Great fucking idea, Simon. Not long ago the kid had finally been crawling out of his shell, now it seems he's been scared right back in.

Of course, he's not the only one who's scared.

Simon knows with a dull sense of certainty that he's going to lose him. Sooner or later Kieren will bite the bullet and go home. He has a family, and Simon has his own. Just because Simon's parents made room for Kieren doesn't mean the gesture will be returned. In fact, it's probably better if it isn't- no parent would be happy on seeing their runaway son return home with a shuddering ex-junkie in tow, especially not one nearly ten years his senior.

But it would be selfish to keep Kieren here.

No. He has to go back. Considering how he seems to be wasting away with worry at the moment, it's really the only option for him.

"Morning," Lana smiles as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

"Mornin', Mum," he mumbles, leaning down to give her the customary peck on the cheek. Fucking Hell, it's like he never even left.

As anticipated, she can sense his foreboding the second he makes eye contact. "What's wrong?"

He sighs, slumping into a chair at the table and rubbing his eyes. "Have a guess."

Her eyes flicker upwards. "He alright?"

Simon shrugs, slouching forward with his elbows on the table. "Dunno, he won't talk to me."

She sits down beside him, rubbing his back with one hand as another weary sigh escapes his lips.

"I just…" he stares up at the ceiling, as if he can meet Kieren's eyes through the plaster and search his gaze for answers. "I'm stuck, and he's not helpin'. No feckin' clue what I can do, or say. I just want 'im to stop worrying so much, but there's sod all I can do to help, I'm useless…"

"Ah, now don't say that, _alanna,_" she chides, patting his back firmly as she gets up to tend to the screeching kettle. "Y'ought to give yourself more credit than that!"

"You're my mum, you're s'posed to say that," Simon grumbles, but a small smile tugs at his lips. He may act indifferent, but that doesn't make his relief at being once again accepted by his mother any less powerful.

"Well, yeh should," she chuckles, pouring the steaming liquid into the two empty mugs on the counter. "Kieren wouldn't be showing an interest if yeh were useless, would he? He's got better sense than that!"

"Trust me, he doesn't," Simon mutters, taking his mug and adding three generous spoons of sugar. "His taste in men is abysmal…"

"It's always the same," she says airily, shaking her head. "It's always the nice ones- they never know how good they can have it," she sits beside him, covering his hand with her own. "Maybe it's about time he got what 'e deserves, eh?"

"What's that s'posed to mean?" Simon asks, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.

"You've got a good'un, there, Simon," she says with a gentle shrug, sipping her tea. "I'd hold on to 'im if I were you. Treat him right."

She hesitates a moment before setting her mug down, reaching into her handbag where it hangs on the back of the chair. She fishes out her wallet, and he gapes as she holds out a few notes to him.

"Go on, take it," she smiles, pressing the money into his hand. "Take him somewhere- or maybe buy him some new clothes, he's been loungin' around in those awful old shirts of yours for ages!"

"Seriously?" Simon asks, crinkling the paper in his hands disbelievingly. He's amazed that she'd trust him with it- you'd be surprised what you can get for forty quid if you know where to look (and boy, does he know where to look). His skin prickles at the thought.

"I know what you're thinkin'," she says, smiling knowingly. "And yes, I trust yeh."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "Well, I know what you would've done with that in the old days, but you didn't have Kieren, did yeh?" she smiles, eyes shining. "Honestly, Simon, I never thought I'd see yeh head over heels like this, such a cynical laddie when yeh were growin' up!"

"Surprised me, too," he smiles. Understatement of the fucking century.

"Well, let's just say I trust yeh to put him first," she says gently, stroking his hair out of his eyes and tut-tutting at the ragged length of it. "How 'bout yeh go get him, now? Take 'im out for a bit- you could both use the fresh air, I'll bet."

"Yeah," Simon laughs, standing up. "Reckon you're right," he bends down, wrapping one arm round her shoulders and squeezing gently in an awkward but heartfelt one-armed embrace. "Thanks, Mum."

"Have fun," she says, smiling after him as he once again ascends the stairs, this time with a spring in his step. "Oh, and Simon?"

He pokes his head back down, a questioning frown on his face.

"Maybe 'ave a shave."

His hand flies up to his jaw, his slow-growing seven day stubble dangerously close to qualifying as a beard. "Ah, yeah, good idea."

She chuckles as his footsteps fade away. A lot has changed over the years- not least his appearance and attitude- but the careless twelve year-old is still in there, somewhere.

* * *

"Simon, what are we doing?"

"You'll see," the Irish man says with a grin, tugging Kieren along by the hand. The redhead hasn't stopped grumbling since the moment they set foot on the pavement- although he senses guilt beneath the grouch.

Before too long they find themselves back in the familiar square, just off the corner from their favourite music shop. Simon pulls them to a stop outside a small coffee house, turning to face Kieren with a smile as he reaches out to rummage in his jacket pocket (made slightly awkward by the fact that Kieren is currently the one wearing it).

"Si, what's going on?" Kieren asks with a frown, blushing as Simon's hand brushes his chest through his favourite hand-me-down _Pink Floyd_ t-shirt.

"Tell yeh what's goin' on," Simon beams, finally emerging with the notes in his hand. "We've got pocket money!"

Kieren's eyes widen, partly in wonder and partly in suspicion. "Should I even ask where that came from?"

"I haven't been pick-pocketing if that's what yeh mean," Simon chuckles, tucking the notes into the pocket of his jeans. "Present from Mum- told me to take you out, buy yeh some stuff. New clothes, maybe? Getting' sick of wearing my teenage wardrobe, yet?"

"Actually," Kieren says quietly, blush deepening as he shifts from foot to foot. "I kind of like them. Wearing them, I dunno, they're just… nice, I guess."

"Yeah," Simon says softly, gazing adoringly at the rising pink in the younger man's cheeks. "Yeah, I like when you wear 'em, too."

He reaches out, taking Kieren's hand again. "So, with your permission, there's something else I wanna get yeh."

"Uh, sure, okay," Kieren mumbles, frowning. "What?"

"All in good time," Simon grins, pulling Kieren further along the road.

* * *

Kieren leans wearily against the shop window, tapping his heel against the wall at his back. Another thing he hates is waiting.

Simon had disappeared into their favourite record store a few minutes ago, telling Kieren to stay put. It was kind of frustrating- it wasn't like he was going to have time to wrap whatever he was buying, so what was the point of delaying the inevitable reveal? But Kieren humoured him. Obviously Simon is a relative newcomer to the world of romantic gestures and he clearly wants to do it right.

Romantic gestures. God, now there's a thought. He's not sure he's ever had one before- well, okay, a few secret ones, the candles Rick brought to the cave had been a nice touch. But usually Kieren was the one making the mixtapes. Rick hadn't really been the fool-for-love type.

He really needs to stop letting his mind wander back to Rick- he feels guilty enough without getting into all that again.

He wonders what's brought on this strange, spontaneous act of generosity from Simon, and can only think that it's because he's been ignoring him. Maybe Simon thinks he's done something wrong? _Shit_, is he trying to make up for some horrible mistake he hasn't made? Kieren immediately feels even guiltier for hiding away- of course Simon was going to shoulder the blame himself.

He's so busy formulating some kind of apology in his head that he doesn't notice when Simon emerges from the shop. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the Irish man taps his shoulder. He hastily gathers himself, plastering on a smile as his carefully formulated apologies fly from his head.

Simon is holding a wide, flat cardboard sleeve in his hand. It's an old vinyl record, slightly worn round the edges but the cover is still visible on the faded paper.

"Had my eye on this one for a while," Simon says quietly, holding it up for Kieren's inspection.

"'The Smiths'," Kieren reads, smiling. "They're the ones on yer wall, right?"

"That's them," Simon grins, dusting off the careworn cover gently. "This is one of my favourite albums of all time- used to have a record just like this. It was Dad's; bought it when it came out in '86, gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday."

Kieren doesn't question the 'used to', doesn't ask what happened to his copy- chances are it ended in up in the pawn shop along with his guitar. Instead he squints at the cover, red writing on black. "'The Queen is Dead'. Cheery title."

"Alright, so they're not the most upbeat bunch," Simon admits with a laugh, turning the case to look at the cover with a wistful smile. "But I always loved 'em all the same- ever heard them?"

Kieren shakes his head, and Simon rolls his eyes. "'Course not. Feckin' Hell, yeh make me feel ancient sometimes. This albums a classic, great songs- 'There Is a Light That Never Goes Out'? _To die by your side, it's such a heavenly way to die- _anything?"

"Actually, yeah," Kieren says, nodding along to the familiar lyrics. "Think I might've heard that one."

"Classic," Simon grins. He turns the box round again, holding it out to Kieren shyly. "Anyway, here yeh go."

"Seriously?" Kieren asks, reaching out to take the cardboard gently between his fingertips. Sounds like it means a lot to Simon- doesn't he want to start rebuilding his own collection, first?

"Yeah, seriously," Simon says, closing Kieren's fingers around the case. "I want yeh to have it."

Kieren stares down at the tattered old box with something approaching awe. "Simon…"

Simon leans in, stopping him with a swift kiss on the lips. Kieren has to blink away his shock- kissing in public is kind of a new experience for him, he hadn't realised they'd made it that far. He's so surprised he doesn't realise he's kissing him back until Simon pulls away and he finds himself chasing the lost touch.

He jerks back and hugs the record to his chest, his cheeks warming. He sort of wants to feel embarrassed about what he just did, but with Simon giving him that look like he's dropped straight from Heaven it's hard to feel self-conscious.

"Simon," he says slowly, carefully, choosing his next words like he can't quite believe he's saying them. He really can't- it's stupid, hasty and selfish, what he's about to ask.

"Yeah?" Simon prompts gently with a quirk of his lips.

Simon's finally rediscovered his family, it's time for Kieren to do the same. They always knew that this couldn't last. Best to just go their separate ways, before either of them gets hurt. Before it becomes too hard to say goodbye.

"Will you come with me?" he whispers, clutching the record tighter, pressing it to his heart.

"To Roarton?" Simon asks, eyebrows shooting up.

Kieren nods, closing his eyes guiltily. He shouldn't have asked. Simon has his life back, he can't expect him to drop it all to come to some ghost town in the sticks with the kid he barely knows. It's selfish, but Kieren doesn't want to leave him behind just yet.

"You sure?"

Kieren's eyes snap open, he looks at Simon's face. He looks nervous, confused, and maybe just a little hopeful.

"Yeah," Kieren says quietly. "I'm sure."

"Why'd yeh want me there?"

He looks so honestly bewildered, Kieren wants to rush into a thousand reasons. _You saved me, I saved you, you make me feel like I have a place, you make me smile, you fit me like a glove, you're as fucked up as I am, you make me feel like that's not such a bad thing…_

"I'd miss you," he murmurs. Short, simple, barely scratching the surface- but in the end, that's how they'd always worked.

Simon smiles, and it's like watching the sun come out.

"Yeah," he rasps, nodding as a short, breathless laugh escapes his lips. "Yeah, I'd like that."

He surges forward again, catching Kieren's lips with his own. Kieren laughs giddily against his mouth as he wraps one arm around his neck, the other trapped between their bodies along with the worn old record sleeve. It's awkward, sloppy and over-eager, they're both at exactly the wrong angle and both too out of breath from laughing to do anything about it.

But despite the pinch of his arm between their chests, and the clumsy way they occasionally bump foreheads, Kieren's spirits soar.

He's going home, and Simon's coming with him.

* * *

Simon wakes up the next morning, hair mussed and body warm. Cosy, even. Cosier than usual.

He looks down to his side, a familiar head of copper-blonde hair shines in the rising sunlight.

"Finally decided to stay the night, huh?" he mumbles, smiling drowsily as he rolls over to drape his arm across the soft rise and fall of Kieren's chest. He closes his eyes, inhaling the smell of his shampoo in Kieren's hair, the gentle musk of his old clothes mingling with the younger man's scent in the air.

It's nearly eleven o'clock, the harsh winter daylight is already streaming through the drapes.

But with Kieren's warm breath on his neck, his soft hair tickling his cheek, the world once again fades away as Simon slides back into unconsciousness.

* * *

The sun has risen, a new day officially open for business, and boy does Amy have a lot to do.

She has a big day ahead- first thing's first, she has to head over to the Walker house. Her day-trip won't be half as fun unless she can convince Jem to tag along.

The youngest Walker still has a long way to go before she can really feel better. Even if her brother comes home tomorrow, it isn't going to be easy. That poor boy's got a lot of grovelling ahead. But that phone call had lifted a weight from Jem's shoulders, and she's smiled more in the last couple of days than the past three weeks combined.

She has a tough road ahead, but there's no way in Hell Amy's going to let her walk it alone.

There's not much they can do in the space of a day, even without being poor and cancer-riddled, but that doesn't mean they can't have a laugh, maybe a change of scene- maybe they could go for a quick jaunt to the next town over? It'll be good for them both, break away from the oppressive Roarton atmosphere for a bit.

Brush teeth, wash face. Hair. Make-up (_lots _of make-up, no room in her busy day for sallow cancer-cheeks). Ineffective medication. Breakfast. Coffee. Keys.

"God, yer such a worrywart!" she chortles, twirling the keys in her hand. "I'll be fine, I can look after meself!"

"I know, I know," Dorothy calls from the living room with a smile. "Have fun- just take care!"

"Will do!" Amy beams, tugging the door open and taking a deep breath of the chilly winter air. Already a week into December, and she was feeling optimistic. Maybe she still has one more Christmas in her yet.

When she reaches the bottom of the steps, she shrugs off the dizziness. It's the movement, the change in altitude. It'll pass.

She shrugs it off as she walks down the pathway. Bit of morning sickness, is all. It'll pass.

She tries and fails to shrug it off as she reaches the edge of the garden, her hand slowly lifting to cradle her head as it starts to spin.

"Nan?" she calls. It comes out as an inaudible rasp. "_Nan?_" she calls again, louder, more urgent as spots appear in her vision, pitch black against the fine dusting of snow on the pavement.

She barely hears the reply over the noise in her head. High-pitched, whining- where's the air gone? Is she breathing?

Dull pain as her knees hit the icy tarmac. More noise.

Hands on her shoulder, her face, desperately trying to get through to her. Noise. Not just in her head, but outside as a voice calls for help, sobs on the phone.

Noise. Cold. Pain. Dark.

Nothing.

* * *

**Okay, in my defense, this _is _chapter _thirteen_, we were gonna be in for some bad luck.**

**As for next chapter... I apologise in advance.**

**...Until next time! X**


	14. Thank You, and Goodnight

**Hey, guys.**

**Y'all were very quiet last week- you mad at me for how I ended it?**

**...Yikes. Guess I'm not getting any comments this week, either. Because if you thought the last chapter was tragic then... fuck.**

**I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.**

**(Don't be a sobbing mess like I was when writing this- I listened to 'Comme une rosee de larmes' from the soundtrack of 'The Artist' on a loop while I wrote and I'm seriously regretting it, don't do it.)**

**********************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Thank You, and Goodnight...**

* * *

"_Amy! Amy, its, alright, sweetheart, you'll be alright- just stay awake!"_

The familiar voice feels like its miles away, echoing hollowly in her ears amidst a thousand other sounds. Sirens, voices, equipment. Pile it on top of the shrill ringing in her ears and it all may as well be one massive hunk of white noise.

But she knows the voice, and knows what it says is right. She has to stay awake, it's her best chance. It's just so hard not to succumb to unconsciousness when she feels like her frail body is collapsing beneath her, every breath a struggle.

Without her nan's hand clasped in her own, the gentle whisper in her head that tells her it's not time to go yet, she could just sink below the surface and never rise again.

* * *

"Come back soon, alright? You're always welcome, y'know!"

"Don't worry, Mum, I'll bring 'im back," Simon chuckles, wrapping her in one last goodbye hug.

"Thanks for everything, Mrs…" Kieren trails off, brow furrowing as he turns to Simon. "What _is _your last name?"

Simon's eyes widen, like he's only just realised that he never volunteered that rather important bit of information. "Monroe."

"As in Marilyn?" Kieren smirks.

"Shut up," Simon grumbles.

Lana smiles at them both, her eyes watering. Iain stands at her side, his expression unreadable. He holds out his hand to Simon, and after a moment's hesitation his son shakes it.

"Well," Simon mumbles, hoisting his backpack over his shoulder. "Better get off- don't wanna keep your family waiting, eh?"

Kieren nods, fiddling nervously with the bandage on his wrist that he could have removed weeks ago. "Yeah, guess so."

He smiles at Simon, taking his hand and turning with him to the door, taking their first step away from the Monroe family home.

He's so nervous he doesn't even think about the cleaned and repaired hoodie lying on the guest bed upstairs, long forgotten. But with the familiar scent of cigarette smoke wafting from the heavy jacket on his shoulders, there's really no need to remember.

* * *

"But she made it through the night- that's a good sign, isn't it?"

The doctor frowns, jaw set in professional detachment. Dorothy's heart drops to her stomach.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

"Ready for this?"

Kieren nods, clasping Simon's hand tightly as the Irish man attempts to hail a taxi. "Yeah. Yeah, I think so…"

"Sure yeh don't need a little more time? I mean, it's only been a couple of days…"

"No," Kieren says with a shake of his head. "No, I need to do this now. If I stay away any longer I'll keep putting it off, I'll never get back."

Simon nods understandingly, lowering his hand as a taxi pulls up in front of them. Kieren stops him before he can get in.

"You sure you wanna come?" Kieren asks quietly. "I mean, I'd understand if yeh-"

"Kieren," Simon says softly, squeezing his hand. "I'm coming. End of."

Kieren smiles and nods, but this time it's Simon who pulls him back from the car.

"What's _your _last name?" he asks.

His smile is slow but confident, his heart warm as the words he'd tried to escape fell from his lips.

"Walker," he says. "I'm Kieren Walker."

It feels like a weight lifting from his chest. It feels like everything once again clicking into place. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, he can honestly say he feels like himself once again. A better version of himself- a version of himself who's walked through fire and come out stronger.

The moment is undermined by Simon bursting into sniggers.

"Seriously?" he laughs, to Kieren's befuddlement. "The first time I met yeh you'd been wondering the city for two days without breaks, walking till yer feet were sore, and your name is actually _Walker?_"

For a second, Kieren is annoyed at Simon for ruining his big emotional awakening.

But a burst of surprised laughter escapes his lips before he can stop it. "Guess I never thought of that."

Simon shakes his head, still chuckling as he holds the cab door open for Kieren to slide in. "Kieren Walker," he murmurs, as if trying out the taste of it on his tongue. "I like it."

* * *

"Amy?"

Her heart beats, that much is certain. But it's weak, slow, sluggish. Clearly it isn't putting in the effort anymore. Slacking off, the little bastard.

She's only heard certain words- words like 'stabilised' and 'time' and 'soon'. Her own brain had filled in the blanks.

The owner of the voice approaches slowly, carefully. She hears the creak of a chair as it sits down beside her. Feels a familiar hand gently take her own. She turns her head slightly, blinking against the bright light, and smiles weakly.

"Heya, Handsome…"

* * *

"Thank you."

Kieren turns to him with a smile, and Simon feels his callous old heart threaten to burst from his chest as the younger man's arms tighten around the bag in his lap. The bag containing the careworn vinyl record, carefully padded between all the old clothes he'd collected from Simon's room. All little pieces of Simon himself, clutched close to Kieren's heart beneath the heavy leather jacket.

"For what?" Kieren asks over the tinny noise of the radio, cars racing by in a blur behind his head.

Simon leans in, kisses his beautiful, infuriating, artistic, sarcastic man on the lips. He pulls back just enough to breathe, pressing their foreheads together as one hand grazes gently against Kieren's jaw, sliding into his soft hair and holding him there.

"For everything," he whispers. "You've saved my life in more ways than I count, Kieren Walker."

Kieren smiles, winding an arm round Simon's shoulders to hold him close.

"You were worth saving, Simon Monroe…"

* * *

"Please, Amy…"

"Don't go cryin' over me, Tiger," Amy rasps, her feeble grip on his hand tightening.

He shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Please don't go…"

Despite her best efforts, a warm tear trickles from her eye. "'Fraid I don't 'ave much choice in the matter…"

He sobs quietly, gripping her hand like a lifeline.

"Hey," she says quietly, waiting for him to look at her face. "Look after Jem for me, yeah?" she asks softly.

She doesn't know why she does it. Jem'll have her brother back soon, and Phil barely knows her. But she feels like she owes it to Jem not to leave her stranded, alone again with not a soul to talk to.

She owes it to Philip to give him something to fight for.

"Take care of me BBF for me, yeah?" she whispers.

He nods wordlessly, the tears still flowing as he raises her hand to his lips.

* * *

He doesn't know how quickly he catches the movement- quicker than Kieren and the driver, surely.

But even as he flies forward, shielding Kieren with his own body as the other car collides, he already knows that he wasn't quick enough.

* * *

"Doctor!"

He cries out, tears still pouring down his face as Amy's eyes flutter closed, her pulse weakening.

When help arrives, when the doctors and nurses flood to the bedside and do everything they can to just buy her a few more measly hours, Philip can do nothing but back up to the door and stay out of their way.

His hand drops limply to his side, and the last lingering trace of warmth from her skin slips away.

* * *

When the deafening crash of metal on metal fills his ears, he feels his heart lurch.

He feels that lurch lead to a silence.

But he doesn't think about his heart, or the pain, or the stifling heat and pain in his lungs as he gasps for breath.

Because for some reason, when the deafening _bang_ of the colliding vehicles echoes in his head, all Kieren Walker can see are fireworks.

* * *

It's going dark.

Everything dims, the off-white walls fading to grey, slowly sliding to black.

She sees movement. She hears voices, feels hands on her body, compressing her chest, holding oxygen masks to her face.

She wonders how well they'll do. Who knows, maybe her heart'll beat a few more hours yet.

It's just a shame she won't be awake to appreciate the effort.

Her eyelids are so heavy. She wants to stay awake.

She wants to stay…

_It's not fair…_

* * *

Pain. Too much of it to keep track of, in every part of his body. Searing pain in his back, in his chest, coughing and spluttering for breath though he knows he won't find it. If his lungs are still intact, then they're being crushed by his ribs.

He wasn't fast enough.

He can't see anything, all he can make out are black spots dancing across his vision, spreading like a cancer. Soon there'll be nothing left.

He feels something else. Something that isn't pain.

It's a hand, gripping his arm. Soft hair, tickling his cheek.

As Simon Monroe slips away, he carries the words that are whispered into his ear with him.

"I love you…"

* * *

A few hours. It was all they could give her, in the end.

But now the pulse is gone. Now the machines remain silent, and Amy Dyer's eyes remain closed.

The doctor sighs, pulling off his gloves and handing them to the nurse at his side.

"Time of death," he pronounces grimly, checking his watch. "Nine forty-two."

* * *

**THERE'S SIX CHAPTERS LEFT, DON'T LYNCH ME! *dodges rotten fruit***

**I'm sorry, I'm really really sorry- I honestly thought about going in a different direction with this for a while but this is how I planned to do it since the beginning and I couldn't find it in me to change it.**

**Still, everyone dead, six chapter's left... guess y'all probably know what's coming, huh?**

**Until next time! X**


	15. A Fresh Start

**...I don't have a good excuse for leaving you with such a terrible chapter. I'm sorry- I'm mean and I like to exploit my power as a writer with followers to make people suffer.**

**This chapter is dedicated to all the 'side characters'- all the people who are left to paper over the cracks when the people they love fall off the edge. Because no one can ever slip out of the world without leaving a ripple effect, there's always someone who has to pick up the pieces in their wake. And if you can't talk about grief, guilt, anger and the inevitable slog of life going on in an _In The Flesh_ fic, then when can you?**

**Thank you, everyone x**

**************************************DISCLAIMER: In The Flesh and all its characters belong to Dominic Mitchell and BBC Three, I write this purely out of love :3**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen: A Fresh Start**

* * *

In a village as small and uneventful as Roarton, Philip never thought he'd be attending two funerals in the same week. He'd never been so sad to be wrong.

The first took place three days ago, and he'd stood by with tears in his eyes as Amy Dyer was lowered into her final resting place. The earth around her looked so dark, so painfully drab. She would've hated it.

And now here he is again, just a few metres from that freshly turned earth over her coffin, and Kieren Walker was joining her.

He hadn't known Kieren that well, when all was said and done. They'd been friends in school, but not the closest, in many ways a friendship of convenience- they'd had no one else to talk to, so they'd simply stuck by each other. Most of the time Philip had just followed Kieren, who in turn had followed Rick. Sadly, this meant Philip spent most of his time testing out whatever questionable modes of transport they constructed together from battered sleds and stolen trolleys from the Save n' Shop. He'd had his fair share of skinned knees and scraped elbows over the course of their friendship, but in many ways it had been better than sitting around at home with just his mum for company.

But besides mourning the loss of an old friend, he has one other reason for attending the ceremony.

Jem Walker stands beside him, eyes bloodshot and clamped lips trembling.

To lose a best friend is one thing. But to also lose a brother, the same week- nay, the same _day_? Well Philip can't even begin to imagine the hell in young Jem's head right now. A hell that bleeds through when she speaks with venom on her tongue, lashes out with words like punches. Frankly, he wants to back away as far as possible.

But he made a promise.

Time passes in the same agonising crawl that everyone comes to associate with Roarton Valley, days to weeks and weeks to months, but Philip always makes time for Jem.

It's not easy, keeping his promise- not when the girl he's supposed to look after thinks he's weird and hates everyone.

But he thinks she knows what Amy meant to him, maybe even knows what she asked him to do.

For that reason, Jem doesn't attack Philip the way she does everyone else. Sometimes she'll even say hello, even if it's with an unsmiling face and a dead voice.

They're not close, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, their friendship becomes almost identical to the one he'd had with her brother- convenient, comforting, aloof. It's probably not what Amy had wanted, but most likely what she'd expected.

So he tries to be there in whatever small way he can, although if Jem needs help she doesn't bring it up. The youngest Walker is growing more self-reliant by the day.

Meanwhile, Philip is struggling to live up to his own goals. But still he tries, attempting to get back to his life the way it was before a beautiful woman blew into his life like a vivacious hurricane and made his old town and his old life seem so dreary by comparison.

The political ladder is a tricky climb, even in such a small pond as Roarton, but he does what he can. One day he's going to be up there, an important man in a position of power, running this town, maybe even breaking the mould of local politics and actually making some positive changes.

One day, he's going to make Amy proud.

* * *

Dorothy Dyer doesn't have long left, but then she's known that much for quite some time.

She never told Amy about her weak heart. She hadn't found out until some months after the girl was first diagnosed with leukaemia, and there's nothing like a suffering grandchild to takes one's mind off one's own health problems.

Now Amy is gone, and there's not much holding her frail old body together anymore.

March 2010 has already come and gone, over three months since that terrible day in the hospital. Dorothy doesn't honestly believe that time heals all wounds, never did, but something tells her she'll need a lot more time than she's likely to get.

But she can't be ungrateful. It's still more time than Amy got, and still nowhere near as long as her girl deserved.

From the day she was born, that girl had been special. Even as a baby, she'd had hands that never stayed still and a smile to make the sun shine.

Dorothy wasn't her mother, but that's what it had felt like. She'd been there through it all, the highs and lows, the last thing she ever wanted for Amy was to grow up feeling isolated. A spirit like hers needed to be nourished, supported, or she'd grow up like every other child in the world- trodden into the dirt by everyone else's expectations. In a way, Dorothy had got what she'd always wanted. Amy may have been many things, but lonely was never one of them.

But apparently, even when you do everything right, something will always come along to destroy what you've created. In Amy's case, it had been headaches, nausea, and a diagnosis that would be the new focal point of her short life.

Dorothy sits down, her arthritic knees complaining. She sinks back into the armchair, eyes sweeping the room as her parasol clatters to the floor.

She's lived in this house for as long as she can remember. This is where her parents had lived, and their parents before them. This is the Dyer house, and she'd hoped it would stay that way a little longer.

She thinks of her will, drawn up several years ago after her first diagnosis. Thinks of the section with the house, the money, and the space where it used to state Paul Dyer as the recipient.

Now the space reads Amy Dyer.

She should change it, put her son back in the will now that her granddaughter cannot accept the offer, but she doesn't care enough anymore.

As far as she's concerned, once she's gone, this old place can gather dust.

* * *

Iain Monroe isn't okay, and nothing he says can convince Lana otherwise.

You really get to know a person after thirty years of marriage. Iain isn't the enigmatic man of mystery he was when they'd met, nor was he the dashing charmer who'd swept her off her feet.

But he is a human being, the one she loves. And she can tell when he's in pain.

Simon's death was always going to be a cause of grief for them- despite his faults, he had been their son. But somehow the knowledge of how close he'd been to making it through, how much he'd turned his life around, makes its abrupt end cut so much deeper. She can see it in Iain's eyes- that haunted look that comes when you watch something close to your heart fade to a memory before your very eyes.

There's a ghost haunting this old house, now. Actually, more like two.

Her heart bleeds for Kieren. In some cruel twist of fate, both her son and the only boy he'd ever loved had met their end in the same crash of metal.

She looks down to her lap, to the hoodie lying across it. The blood is long gone from the sleeve, the tears repaired and the fabric washed and softened. It must have completely slipped his mind to take it.

She wishes she'd known his last name, or known where he was from. He has a family somewhere, parents and a sister that he'd been on his way to home to. She wants to talk to them, offer her condolences, thank them on Simon's behalf for everything Kieren did. But the boy had left no clues, and the police hadn't been forthcoming with the information- with all the times they'd had to haul Simon back in the middle of the night, drunk, disorderly and off his head, their family weren't exactly in their good graces anymore.

She often finds herself wondering if the boy had even existed. His appearance had been so sudden, so perfect, swooping in just when her son had needed him most. Maybe she had been right, maybe he was a guardian angel. But she can't believe that, not when both of their bodies are in the ground.

It's hard to find things to be grateful for in times like these. Sometimes it would be so easy to get up and leave- just walk out into the unknown with her life in a bag and her Bible forgotten beneath her bed.

But if there's one thing, just one thing that she can be honestly thankful for, it's that Simon didn't die alone like she'd always feared.

Iain may not draw much solace from that- he'd kept quiet about it, but his son's… _preferences _had always been a sore spot for him- but she finds it the greatest source of comfort she could hope for. She hates that her son is gone, and she hates that Kieren is, too.

But for the first time in years, neither of them had been lonely.

Maybe this time, with that comforting thought in mind and Simon gone for good, the time has come for them to move on. No more waiting by the phone.

They're selling the house. Too many ghosts stalk these halls.

They'd been talking about it for years, but never taken the leap- how could she, when her son could come looking for them at any moment?

Now he's gone, and though her heart weeps for her child and his saviour, she can't keep living in the past. Honestly, if she stays still long enough she thinks it'll kill her.

So they pack, and they plan, and three months later they are gone, renting a small flat in the city while the house remains on the market.

A fresh start.

* * *

Sometimes Sue feels like she's riding a rowboat in a storm, desperately trying to patch up the holes even as more burst open. That's what it feels like, trying to keep what remains of the Walker family afloat.

Steve, bless his heart, isn't much help. If she thought he'd retreated into himself when Kieren was just _missing_, it was nothing compared to now. Now his son's dead, and he's struggling to hold on. Every morning he shuffles to work with dragging feet and a blank face, and every night he comes home and drops to the sofa, barely stopping to eat before he spends his night with his numb gaze focused on the glow of the TV screen. He won't talk about it. Talking was never his forte.

Jem is another matter entirely. Not only is her fiery temper exploding on a regular basis, now she doesn't even have Amy to vent to. God, she misses Amy. That girl had just brightened everyone's day, the living incarnation of sunshine. She was exactly the kind of person they all needed in their lives right now.

Sue scrubs the plates in the sink forcefully, her teeth gritted against the surge of emotions bubbling beneath the surface. She hasn't got time for them- she has to deal with Jem and Steve, first. Has to take care of them.

But it's so hard, harder than anything, to admit that her Kieren's never coming back.

For a while after he'd left, she'd felt betrayed. Sad and sympathetic, but betrayed. He'd had some hard times over the years, and Rick's death wasn't easy on him, but that he would just up and leave without a word…

But it had been okay, because he wasn't gone for good. Or at least, there was a chance he wasn't. There was no body, nothing to suggest that he was dead, so he was alive somewhere. One day he'd come back, she'd have a chance to find out what had made him leave, have a chance to make it right. But now there's no room to wonder, no counting the days until he returns because this time he's gone for good.

Now she'll never know what sent him away, or what she could have done to stop it.

She tries to tell herself that at least she doesn't have to keep waiting now. In a horrible, heart-breaking way, she's free. They all are.

But no amount of freedom can make up for the fact that her son's gone.

She remembers a few days before the accident, when she'd come home to find Jem in tears on the sofa. She remembers collapsing right next to her, crying relieved tears onto her shoulder as Jem told her about the phone call. Kieren was alive, and he was coming home soon.

Three days later, they'd received another call, this time from the Manchester City Police. That call had brought on entirely different tears.

That was the day after Amy had been rushed off to the hospital in the neighbouring town, unconscious and fading fast. It was the day Dorothy Dyer called and told her that Amy had passed away in her sleep.

That day, the ninth of December 2009, had been the day that Jem had locked herself in her room. She'd stayed there for almost a week, and Sue heard her sobs through the wall every night. She wished there was something, anything she could say to make it better. But what can you possibly say to make the death of a brother and a best friend alright?

So, through Jem's rages and Steve's retreats, Sue tries to hold their crumbling family together in Kieren's wake.

She's angry.

It's horrible to admit, like she's disrespecting her son's memory. It hadn't been his fault, not really. He may have left home, but he didn't ask to die. It wasn't his fault. He would never hurt his family deliberately- beneath the punk clothes and the sarcasm he'd been a gentle boy, with an artist's soul.

But now he's gone, and Sue has to pick up the pieces.

Despite her anger, her bitterness, the feeling she gets every morning when she thinks it'd be easier to just stay in bed, she says a prayer for Kieren every night even as her belief ebbs away.

She prays that he's better off now, wherever he is.

She prays that before he died, he'd found some happiness, wherever he was.

She prays that he wasn't alone at the end.

There had been another passenger in the cab, an older man with massive injuries found at Kieren's side. She'd been told his name, but found no Simon Monroe in the phonebook and too many other Monroes in the Manchester area to narrow it down. She'd been told that he'd staggered on a few hours longer before his heart finally gave out on the operating table. She'd been told that his battered body was found draped over Kieren's, having absorbed the worst impact. And though it didn't work, she says a prayer for him, too.

Maybe he'd been a stranger or vague acquaintance, just splitting a cab. Maybe he'd been something more, and he'd deliberately used his own body as a shield. But she hopes that he was a good friend, prays that he'd been talking to Kieren at the end.

Kieren had always been such a lonely boy. But living alone is one thing, dying alone…

A tear trickles down her cheek, dropping to the surface of the plate, warm water sliding in with cold.

She couldn't bear it if he died alone.

* * *

It's the kind of event that should have happened on the stroke of midnight at the turn of the year, or on some kind of important date laden with magic and mystery.

But it's the eleventh of April 2010, a drizzly night in Roarton Valley, when the dead begin to rise from their graves.

When the first earth shifts, a slender hand erupts from the ground. The hand grips the turf, claws, drags itself through the soil. A body emerges, its chaotic tangles of hair topped with a dirt-stained red flower. The 'it' is in fact a she, and as she drags herself from her tomb beautiful skirts in ragged tatters trip her clumsy feet.

Her body free, her eyes wide open, she turns her face to the sky and stares uncomprehendingly at the moon as it shines. She stands still as the wind howls, and dimly thinks that she should feel it.

But she has no time to think of the wind or rain, or how it should feel on her skin. There's something else fighting for attention; a lust, a craving.

A hunger.

She staggers forth on numb feet, soles scraping the dirt. Around her, other figures have started to appear, hands clawing desperately at the open air. She stumbles on, one thing on her mind.

But along the way, something distracts her.

A face she knows.

* * *

As he breaks free from the stifling cocoon of earth and timber, he inhales a deep breath of frigid air before realising he doesn't need it.

His name eludes him. So does everything else, come to think of it. There's nothing in him now besides a craving, residing deep in his bones and demanding he move.

He claws and scrapes, but he can't quite drag himself the last of the way. Other bodies move around him, shuffling and shambling through the rain, but he remains stuck, halfway between freedom and the tomb, between this life and the last.

Something grips his arm, yanks him forcefully from his pit. As the nails dig into his skin he sees the face, the pretty hair offset by warped features and blank eyes. Strangely, he isn't even remotely concerned.

The person releases his bicep, holds his wrist, and shuffles on. He stumbles along behind, happy to follow.

Rain surrounds them, dashed aside by wind. The sight triggers something else, lurking in his mind below the red haze of hunger. A picture, or a memory.

A face, pale and gaunt, drenched with rain, and a hand reaching for his own.

* * *

Several hours later, in a cemetery not so very far away, a new plot of earth churns.

The hand that shoots out grabs at the ground, ragged fingernails gouging furrows in the mud.

The body slowly emerges, pristine suit stained with filth. The neat cut of his hair lies in disarray, gel cracked and slick strands dangling across his milk-white face.

Something stirs in the back of his mind, memories desperately trying to clamour to the surface, but never making it that far. He is running on a far more basic instinct, now.

A new moon lights his progress across the stirring ground, casting his twisted face in an ethereal glow. Bile drips from his lips, his vision narrows. He's hungry.

So hungry…

* * *

**I told you it wasn't over yet!**

**Well, here we are again- seems like whatever path we take, whatever option we choose we always end up here. I guess some things just aren't meant to be changed. Stay tuned for some of the events you know, but not as you remember them!**

**Now, it is with a heavy heart that I announce there will not be an update next Monday- I'm falling a bit behind on my writing (real life gets in the way sometimes) and I don't wanna rush the last chapters and undo all the good work I've done so far with hasty conclusions. But with a bit of luck I'll be back to normal after a two week hiatus, and with luck and regular updates the last five chapters will be posted every consecutive Monday as per usual, concluding just before Christmas.**

**Thank you all for sticking with me this long- y'all are wonderful! **

**Until next time! X**


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